Your Home, Your Tomb

Washington was a dead city.

No surprises there, Moore reflected – Washington was a dead city in the same way that every city on planet Earth was dead. When you (and by you, that meant humanity) were invaded by a conquering race of aliens (or races – the Hierarchy had many within its ranks), your cities tended to be hit first. More of your foes to kill, shock and awe, cut off the head of the snake, that sort of thing.

Or, alternatively, he was giving humanity too much credit, since any organized resistance to the Hierarchy had collapsed in less than 24 hours. In the months that had followed since first contact, and the weeks that had followed since Kamal Rex had been put in a perpetual fever dream, he'd been in contact with what remained of his own species, both in the US and abroad. That he was now effectively the commander-in-chief of what used to be the United States aside (and really, saying Earth had countries at all right now was stretching it), the best estimate was that the Hierarchy had wiped out around 90% of the human race. Some countries had been hit harder than others, to the extent that some were completely devoid of human life (or life of any kind), but on average, nine out of every ten hairless apes who'd once looked up into the stars in wonder had been exterminated.

Smaller populace would make it easier to govern, he thought, as he sat in the Oval Office. Washington was dead, but the White House and its grounds weren't, even if half of said structure had been obliterated by a Hierarchy walker.

If he looked out a window (or more commonly, one of the gaping holes in the walls), he could see an eclectic mix of soldiers and civilians setting up camp. Guns, tanks, helicopters, plus attempts at agriculture. A February chill coated the grass, fog and mist as perpetual as the fires that still flickered on the White House grounds and beyond, but with spring coming, there was new renewal.

Or some shit like that.

Not that he'd have admitted it, but when Willard walked in, smirking like an idiot, he actually welcomed him. Willard, he knew how to deal with. Go to X, shoot everything in X, go to Y, repeat the process. He'd much rather deal with Willard than administer the 3.5 million or so remaining USAnians, many of whom were giving him a pain in the A. Not to mention that despite sporadic contact with various cities and bases across the country, there was less of a sense of "US" by the day.

"Ah, there he is. Commander-in-chief."

"Go to Hell, Willard."

"Been through Hell, sir. Whole human race has." A shadow passed over the sergeant's face, but nevertheless, he placed some documents on Moore's desk. "Latest reports from the field."

Reports, Moore could go over. He was a general, he knew how to delegate, most of his delegation had been with civilians who could get a handle on things, but when it came to actual military reports, he preferred to use his own eyes, thank you very much.

"Same as usual," said Willard, feeling the need to summarize for whatever reason. "Intelligence across the world suggests that the novus and masari are wiping out whatever Hierarchy forces they can find. What's left of the planet's militaries know to stay out of the way."

Moore grunted. War, it was said, made for strange bedfellows. He'd never thought he'd be sharing intelligence with countries like Iran and China, but whatever might have been lost in translation through the communiques they sent, national divisions had gone the way of the dodo. It was their world, their fight (a fight they'd lost spectacularly), and as uneasy as many were seeing legions of automatons and super-human gods marching across the wastes of Earth, the "stay out of the way" orders had so far held up.

Moore turned to the next set of documents. "Satellites are still fried."

"Yes sir. Whole network's knocked out. Undersea cables managed to survive the assault, but real-time communication has been hampered severely."

"And what about our other allies?" Moore murmured.

"Sir?"

"Other allies, Willard. The aliens. What do they have planned?"

The sergeant fell silent.

"Spit it out, Willard, tomorrow's too late." And I don't even know if there's going to be one.

"Well, sir, we were hoping you would know." The sergeant rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, you're the one who's been in contact with them. More than any of us at least. There's all sorts of rumours."

"Rumours are for enlisted men, Willard."

"I am enlisted."

Moore grunted. "I could make you VP, that would change things.

"Duly noted. But the rumours suggest that our allies don't really care about us, or even for each other. And intel…" Willard tapped one of the files on the bottom of the pile, "…suggests that they don't even care about each other."

Moore grunted. He wished the president had survived the whole alien invasion thing, and that NORAD hadn't been reduced radioactive slag, taking the VP with it. Dealing with inter-species diplomacy wasn't among the subjects he'd studied at West Point. Nevertheless, he went over the report, replete with intel taken from across the globe, along with accompanying photos.

They were inferences, but they all inferred the same thing. Standing orders were that human militaries stay out of the way of the novus and masari, but the intel suggested that the aliens weren't making any further attempts to contact them, and had ignored any attempts at doing so. Most of those attempts had been directed at the masari (unsurprising, since they were nearly phenotypically identical to humans, and had formed the basis of more than one Terran mythology), but no attention or even aid had been given.

From what Moore had learnt, both species had reason to hate the Hierarchy. In that, their causes were the same. But beyond that?

The next set of images gave him the answer. Novus constructing sleek, bullet-like structures, reaching to the sky like rockets. Masari constructing their own, which reminded him of something out of Stargate – pyramidal, zigguratical (was that a word? He didn't know) constructs being built at various locations. Moore wasn't an engineer, but if he had to guess…

"Ships," he murmured. "They're building ships."

The sergeant remained silent.

"Spaceships, Willard."

"I guessed as much, sir."

Moore leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "Fucking brilliant."

"Sir?"

"Willard, do I have to spell it out to you? They're going. We're being left alone."

"But that's good sir, isn't it?"

Moore looked at him like one of his old professors. "If the Hierarchy come back, what's there to stop them? Because you know as well as I do that tanks don't cut it."

Willard winced, and Moore regretted his words. As an armoured company commander, Willard had gone toe-to-toe with the Hierarchy's walkers. Not exactly War of the Worlds, but the result was the same – human artillery was useless, hundreds of men and women had been vapourized, and there hadn't even been a proverbial Thunder Child. Not surprising, since most of the world's naval forces had been obliterated from orbit before the Hierarchy even arrived planetside.

Moore went over the documents again. With the knowledge that the novus and masari were planning to leave Earth, suddenly, their events were recontextualized. Their rapid marches and extermination campaigns were nothing more than a mop-up effort. There was no plan to consolidate their position, they just wanted to get into the thick of it. Or, if the Hierarchy planned on sending a second invasion, a retreat.

And if that happens, we're more fucked than a cow on a probing table. Moore, well aware of the Hierarchy's strange interest in Earth's bovines, opened up the last document.

"So what do we do?" Willard asked. "Tell the civvies everything's going to be okay? Great victory, aliens are leaving, we start to rebuild?"

Moore remained silent.

"Or that we might be screwed?"

"Those propositions aren't mutually exclusive, Willard. We…what the hell?"

"Sir?"

Moore turned the document over to Willard, so that the sergeant could see the recon photos taken by one of the few drones left in their arsenal. "What the hell are these things?"

"I…believe the accompanying docs explain that, sir?"

"Like hell they do," Willard said, as he looked at the structures. At the legions of novus constructing them, at the giant, humanoid figure with the gun larger than a tank. "Willard, I have a job for you."

"Sir?"

"I need a meeting in the White House," he said. "Bring her in."

"Sir, the novus can…sir, if they don't want to come, we have no means of forcing their hand."

"Oh, that's easy," Moore said. "Just ask politely."

He wished Willard could have at least tried to look more confident.

Because despite his bluster at seeing the images, Moore was feeling anything but.

The humans called it the White House, but really, what covered it was a perpetual shade of grey.

Dust and ashes, Mirabel reflected, as she was led through the structure's corridors. Dust from the months of war that had consumed Sol III, ashes from the countless organics that had been vapourized. One could actually extrapolate the casualty figures by analyzing how much ash was in Sol III's atmosphere, cross-reference it for traces of organic matter, identify the DNA, compute the mass, and put figures on the numbers of dead, be it Terran or otherwise.

(At last count, the Hierarchy had exterminated around 7,219,240,923 human beings.)

She could share those figures with the human soldiers escorting her through the structure's dust-filled corridors, but decided not to. They were skittery enough, holding their ballistic weapons as if their lives depended on it, and besides, she suspected the humans already knew what the Hierarchy's invasion had cost them. That there were any of them left put humanity in a better position than countless species across the galaxy, wiped out to the last by the Hierarchy's perpetual genocide machine, but again, cold comfort, even as this hemisphere steadily warmed, as Sol III continued to orbit its sun.

"Through here, ma'am," one of them said, the alien's language being filtered through an earpiece. "The general's expecting you."

"Well I should hope so. He did request my presence after all."

An attempt at humour, and one that Mirabel guessed had failed, given the soldiers' silence. She knew what humour was. Humour had come in bits and pieces to her over the aeons. Humour never reciprocated by any novus construct, and in the case of the Founder, scorned. Was it something inherent to organics, or just species like herself and humanity?

Because the similarities hadn't escaped her, and it couldn't have escaped the aliens who'd seen her mech touch down on the grounds of the White House, and beheld the alien within disembark. Even in a bodysuit with a portable force field that would make her immune to any ballistic weaponry, Mirabel had, and still felt, naked.

Deal death from her mech? Fine. Go toe-to-toe with the most advanced constructs in the Hierarchy? Fine. Emerge from that mech and walk beside, rather than above lower-technology species? Absolutely terrifying. Made all the worse in the knowledge that if she died this time, there'd be no coming back.

Nevertheless, she tried to remain impassive as they approached the great oak doors that led to something the translator called the Oblong Office. Scans of the structure indicated that the room in question wasn't in that shape at all, but she doubted the humans would appreciate such semantics.

"Wait here."

She obeyed the soldier who entered, and closed the door behind him. Leaving her in the presence of his counterpart, who Mirabel looked at. For a moment, their eyes met, before his avoided hers.

"Don't worry, I won't bite," she said, smiling.

The human said nothing. Was the translator malfunctioning?

"I've been to a lot of planets," Mirabel added. "None of them like this though. Well, a lot of them were, but by the time we arrived, usually the Hierarchy had wiped out all life."

The human remained silent.

"I'm sure your world will recover," Mirabel said. "Maybe this would be a new start? A chance to-"

What the chance to rebuild from near-extinction was, Mirabel never had the chance to say, as the wooden doors opened, and the other, significantly older soldier ushered her in. Entering the Oblong Office, Mirabel briefly looked around.

It was plush. Portraits hung on the walls, a blue carpet covered the floor, a great wooden desk was situated in front of a window that looked out over the grounds, now filled with humans of all kinds. It was a piece of art – one of the countless pieces Mirabel had found on countless worlds. In what little time the Founder had afforded her, she'd made recordings of the ruins of alien civilizations. Taken trinkets and stored them on her personal ship. That General Moore was the one sitting at the desk, very much alive, couldn't remove the feeling of standing in the halls of the dead.

"You can leave us, Lieutenant."

"Sir?" The soldier looked confused. Frightened.

"Relax, Lieutenant. If Mirabel wanted us dead, we'd be atomized by now." He looked up at her from the docs. "Isn't that right?"

"It would be within our means to do so, yes," she said.

The human named "Lieutenant" made a huff (or was it a scoff?) noise before exiting. The doors closed with a firm 'clunk,' and Mirabel was left alone with the humans' leader, or at least, the leader of this particular group of humans on this particular landmass, of what the novus database referred to as Continent 4.

"Men are jumpy," Moore said.

He wasn't smiling, she noticed. His words were amicable, but not warm.

"Jumpy like jackrabbits. You ever seen a jackrabbit?"

"I…might have?"

"Hmm. Well let me show you a rabbit before you leave." He leant back in the chair, fist clenched. "You are leaving, of course."

Mirabel understood completely. "Programming dictates it."

Moore grunted. "You don't look like a robot to me. Or are you some freaky construct that looks like us?"

"Actually, you look like the Creators, as do the masari, and…" She trailed off, not wanting to derail this through evolutionary theory. "I'm an organic construct," she said. "Cloned over and over using the DNA of our creator species."

"Damn. You don't look cloned over sixty."

"Actually, I've been cloned four-hundred and twenty-four times," Mirabel said. "Our technology is efficient, but our genetic stocks are depleted regardless. Were you to kill me now, I would not return."

Something flickered in the human's eyes. Concern? Sympathy? It was hard to gauge. Whether that be due to the species divide, or a lifetime of being the only organic in a self-automated species of robots, Mirabel couldn't say.

It was nice though, she supposed. Moore, at least, was willing to talk to her (indeed, the recon team under his second had requested her presence specifically). That was more than what the masari were willing to offer, who'd ignored every communique she'd sent to them.

"I need to know some things," Moore said eventually. "I know, you have to bug out sooner or later, and-"

"But out?"

"…turn of phrase," he grunted. He paused, before adding, "I noticed you didn't tell me that I'm wrong."

"Programming dictates it." Seeing the look on his face, Mirabel added, "the Hierarchy has suffered a defeat for the first time in its ten-thousand cycle history. Programming dictates that we exploit this weakness."

"And in doing so, leaving Earth to fend for itself."

"The Hierarchy won't come for Earth," Mirabel said, even though she knew there was a 14% probability that said otherwise. "There are many worlds like yours spread across the galaxy, all subject to the same process of extermination and extraction. The Hierarchy can afford to bypass the resources of Earth. What they cannot afford is to ignore the implications of this defeat at the hands of those who have pursued them across the stars. Or the re-emergence of the masari," she added in an undertone.

"So what you're saying," said Moore slowly, "is that Earth is too unimportant for the Hierarchy to worry about."

"I believe so, yes."

"Huh." He leant back in the chair and smirked. "Here's to be useless, eh?"

Mirabel stared at him. Was this sarcasm? She knew a bit about sarcasm. Sometimes she'd say one thing and mean the opposite thing, but the Founder would remain silent, and she'd wonder if she was going mad.

But the Founder's gone, she reminded herself. Programming dictates one thing, but you're free to ignore it. You could big the entire novus force to remain on Earth. You wouldn't even be unjustified in doing so.

But was it justified? The Hierarchy would want vengeance, as would the masari. In the war that was to come, the novus could play the role they always had – wait on the sidelines, strike at the right moment to cause the Hierarchy as much harm as possible.

But she doubted that would mean much to Moore. Humanity hadn't even escaped their own star system, or even established a permanent presence beyond Sol III. And the pictures Moore shoved across the desk to her were evidence of his kind's provincial thinking.

"These are recon photos of novus structures being constructed in the Mid-West," he said. "Or what used to be the Mid-West…course, that doesn't matter now, because I've been in touch with people all over the world, and they're confirming that you're building these things. These temples, these ziggurats, these-"

"Tombs," Mirabel said bluntly.

"…what?"

"Tombs," Mirabel said, as she looked at the gargantuan structures in Moore's pictures – larger even than the pyramids of the masari. "It is in our programming."

"Yeah, okay, explain that to me like I'm some hairless ape who has no idea what the hell you're talking about."

Mirabel didn't know what an ape was, but nevertheless, she obliged. "We have come across countless worlds in our war against the Hierarchy. Without fail, they have deployed an Purifier – scoured the planet of life. We construct tombs on these fallen worlds to store and honour the dead."

"Newsflash, darling, we are still here."

"…I'm sorry, have I offended you?"

"Me? No. I've killed plenty of my own kind, when I die, I'm dead, don't see any angels waiting for me."

"What's an angel?"

"But for a lot of people, they might take issue with the whole internment thing," Moore said. "Might wonder what's going to be done with those metal tombs you're constructing."

"Programming dictates that…" She trailed off. "I see. We have followed our programming, but we have done so in a context we are not prepared for. We have stored the dead, without heeding the concerns of the living."

"Pretty much."

Mirabel remained silent. So did Moore. Often, she was reminded of what separated her from the rest of the novus. Other times, the line was as thin as a planet's outer atmosphere. She hadn't even initiated the directive for her forces to complete the tombs' construction – she had just let the program run its course, while she directed what was left of her forces to continue hunting the Hierarchy.

"Would you like us to dismantle them?" Mirabel asked. "Would we serve you by returning the bodies? We have stored tens of millions, but-"

"Tens…of millions?"

"Ninety million, five-hundred and-"

"No, no," Moore said, his face turning pale. "Forget it. Whole world's hanging on by a shoestring, last thing I need is people hankering over corpses and…" He sighed. "Take down the tombs. Burn the bodies."

Mirabel remained silent.

"You got wax in your ears?"

"No, General, I only have a type-forty-five translation implant that converts your words into my own language through quantum-bonding with my brainwaves."

"Fascinating."

"But I must point out that you have stated, correctly, that I undertook an action without your consent."

"And?"

"And if there are any among your kind who would seek the bodies of the fallen, are you not operating without theirs?"

Moore opened his mouth, but no words came out. As uncomfortable as he looked, Mirabel almost smiled. This was…fun, she reflected. For the first time in a long time (nay, her entire series of lives) she was able to fight a battle with words rather than weapons.

"How long until you depart Earth?" Moore asked eventually.

She ran the calculations. "In approximately twenty-four planetary rotations, assuming our rates of ship construction and Hierarchy eradication continue as-"

"I'll work something out by then," Moore murmured. "See if there's any takers." He drew out a physical document that Mirabel suspected was made of dead plant matter, and gave her a wave. "That will be all, Mirabel."

"Moore?"

"That will be all," he murmured. "You've got your war to fight. I've got mine."

Takers were few.

Moore had spread word as best he could about the tombs. They would come down, and after that, the bodies burnt. Anyone who wanted to contact the novus for a loved one was welcome to contact him, and in turn, he would contact Mirabel.

But as he sat in the Oval Office, listening to the sound of birds, he saw that even now, three weeks later, no-one was coming forward to retrieve the bodies, nor was there any objection to the tombs coming down. As far as he could tell, what was left of humanity wanted as few reminders of the existence of aliens as possible.

He couldn't say he blamed them. The Hierarchy's forces on Earth had been eradicated. The masari would be departing to wage their war, and simultaneously, the novus. If the Hierarchy returned, humanity wouldn't stand a chance. But whatever happened out there in the stars was an outcome he couldn't make a difference in.

A holographic device on his desk pinned. One given to him by Mirabel before she'd left this place three weeks ago. He'd had some eggheads look at it, but none of them had deduced anything beyond "this shit is light-years ahead of our technology." Considering that light-years measured distance rather than time, Moore wasn't sure what that actually meant, but it didn't matter. There was no shortage of alien tech littering Earth, and what few scientists had survived the apocalypse would have enough junk to satiate them for the rest of their lives.

So, alone with his personal doohickie, he activated it, and saw an image of Mirabel before him.

"General Moore."

It was clear that she was strapped into her mech, and she looked all the more comfortable for it.

"My forces and I will depart Sol Three in two-point-nine of your hours. After that…"

"After that, we'll never see each other again."

"Affirmative."

He looked at her, trying to gauge if that fact bothered her. No sign was forthcoming. Despite being the only organic in the armies of novus, she wasn't as distinct as he might have once thought. Despite being phenotypically identical to a human, he reminded himself that Mirabel was anything but. She had the mind of an alien, one spread across countless lives and countless centuries.

"The tombs are coming down," she said. "No-one has thus approached us."

"I think people know they're living in a tomb," Moore said. "Reminders of it aren't what the people need."

"Is there anything you do need? We can leave surplus weapons behind. We cannot offer food or other sustenance, but-"

"Weapons are good," Moore murmured. "Make sure you give it to everyone."

"Everyone?"

Moore decided not to explain human nature to the alien. Even in the aftermath of an alien invasion, he had no doubt that human nature (read: stupidity) would rear its ugly head sooner or later. A smart man would use his connections with Mirabel to have novus technology provided solely to what was left of America's armed forces. Give them an advantage over what was left of the world's other militaries.

"Everyone," Moore said.

General Moore wasn't a smart man. But a dumb man you could always count on to be dumb. Smart men might do things that were so smart, only a dumb man would think of it.

"Very well. I shall initiate dispatch procedures," Mirabel said. She paused, before saying, "this is it, then."

"Don't cry, I'm not the hugging type."

"I noticed," she said, before smiling. "I shall remember you, though. By my analysis, you have a few of your decades left. If I do not fall in battle, eternity awaits me."

"Good to hear it."

"But still, I shall remember Sol Three. For what was done here…and who I fought alongside."

"The masari, right?" He smirked. "Semper fi, Mirabel."

Did her translation software cover that? He didn't know.

But as Mirabel smiled, as the image of her winked out for the final time, Moore knew that she'd got the message.