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A Viltrumite walks into a bar.
It should be the start of a great joke. It’s a shame the beginning and the punchline will elude your for years to come. The grey veteran is already sitting at the bar when you clock in for your shift. The music is already on the softer side, and the crowd is thin tonight.
Small-town bars like this tend to be quiet on weekdays. The usual crowd has already left to get home before their morning shifts. The rest are kids from the local community college, drunks waiting for last call, and…
You smile at him as you tie a small apron around your waist. A battered, battle-scarred face. An unseeing eye bisected by a spidery line of scar tissue that runs from scalp to mouth. Made more obvious, more pronounced as an appraising eye rolls down your body.
Old-timer or not, he’s in great shape. Big, too. His clothes are new, but slightly straining against his bulk. Leaves nothing to the imagination. You catch yourself when spotting the emptiness at his side, his arm cut off at the elbow. Embarrassment crawls over your neck, your face. Ogling a man so much, you don’t notice the most glaring thing about him.
You nod his way, settling behind the bar. “Thank you for your service,” you greet, flustered.
The spell broken, the stranger looks at you askance. After a beat, his voice rises, pitched low and gravelly, "You people say that a lot."
A strangled little laugh escapes your throat as warmth rises up to your neck in embarrassment. You know better. Not all veterans are proud of what they’ve done or that they served. "Sounds vapid, doesn’t it! I'm sorry." You think but do not say out loud, You’re distracting! Stop looking at me that way!
"No." The stranger responds too quickly, cutting you off mid-sentence. “It is a welcome change. No one has ever extended gratitude for my campaigns before my arrival.”
"Never?” You muse out loud, racking your brain. You refrain from asking what war he fought in, not wanting to bring back any unpleasant memories or find out what country he invaded. Besides, you’ve met plenty of vets this side of a bar. They either talk your ear off all on their own or clam up. You shake your head. “You're joking. You put your life on the line for your country. Or, are you not from around here? Further North?”
“North.” He replies curtly, amusement clear in his one seeing eye. “My countrymen are not the thanking type.”
“Well, it’s a damn shame…” You pause, "I'm being so rude, I didn’t even ask you your name."
He looks vexed for a moment, much of his aplomb from earlier dissipating, before mumbling his answer. He speaks low enough that you have to lean in to hear him better.
"What was that, sugar? Conrad? Carl?"
"Carl." The name rolls out slowly, his tongue tripping in his mouth. It's like seeing a city car struggling on rugged terrain and overcoming a sharp slope. "Carl."
“Well, hey. It’s nice to meet you, Carl.” You slip him yours before joking, "Might have to cut you off at this rate if you're stumbling on your name!"
The beaker is dwarfed in hand. It’s half full still. “Your liquors and spirits do nothing to me.”
“Now that sounds like a challenge, Carl.” You glance behind you at the bottles, thinking of a nice combination. “You want a taste of the house vodka? My treat.”
He talks sparsely throughout the night and leaves without tipping.
You’re still pleasantly surprised to see him at the bar for your next shift.
“You own a farm?”
“I mean… it used to be. But my grandfather passed, God rest his soul, and my mother never bothered. She sold the cattle, rented out the fields until recently, and now it’s sitting.”
The air is clean here, purer. He fills his lungs; the lack of smog, of burning, and waste has him dizzy. It’s no wonder Cecil attempted to keep him enclosed in those cities. It is peaceful here. The man smelled the rot on him, the putrid smell of blood that won’t wash off, and he is doing his best not to let it spread out.
Clever man.
“It reminds me of Datera 35I,” he finds himself speaking aloud, looking out into the expanse of green. “A place untouched, clean.”
Your laughter rings out like bells. “You keep talking about those places. You’ll need to show me pictures one day, honey.”
Datera 35I was once a wondrous planet. Its inhabitants were not yet space-faring, and were rather slow and disturbing to the eye. Beastly, long-limbed, inferior. They had observed a close relationship with their planet, communicating with its inner core or some prattling nonsense.
They had posed no threat and had offered no memorable resistance. Their flesh was fibrous and oversour, a byproduct of their stunning environment. He tasted their blood on his tongue still.
You look over the overgrown rolling fields, seeking to see as he does. A weakness overtakes him, bitter, clotting. He thinks of you, born on Datera 35I, a thousand years before this time. You would not look as you do now, nor would you have met him as you did. You would be nothing but the faraway taste of salt and blood caught between his teeth.
“Honeybee,” the names you come up with slip easily from his mouth in your presence. The feeling they sprout from, so human, has him faltering. You look up at him, expectant, as he finds the right words. “I… It is better to look out here and take it in, then search for it in my memories.”
Cleverness is a defining human trait, Carl has concluded over the weeks he has been on Earth. You note something down, file that for a later time. Much like Cecil and other humans at GDA had done when he addressed them.
You push onto your tiptoes to reach his lips. His back bows to receive your kiss. You mutter against his lips, “Of course, honey. I’d never pressure you.” His heart still has not figured a proper rhythm to settle on when you enter his space. He feels it pound inside his ribs as you slip from the cage of his arms.
You push into the farmhouse, hands on your hips as you take in the dusty interior. He follows silently behind you, spying as you caringly swipe across a glass frame. Faces similar to yours glance down at you, and you beam back.
You catch him staring, and pull him against you. He lets him be led around, listening to you recall names and details from the dead in the primitive photographs.
Conquest is the name he gives Cecil.
He is older than the man’s civilization. No one recalls the name bestowed upon him following his day of adulthood, let alone himself.
Carl is a happy accident, plucked from your lips. The day Cecil summons him, to discuss the anonymity he should keep, Carl replaces his old name. The human doesn’t outwardly react, taking it in stride.
“It has two meanings; one is meant to describe a man as rude, ill-mannered. The other means free man,” Cecil tells him, blasé. “What brought this on?”
The humans he has helped since his arrival give him a different name. Liberation.
The costume is a mimicry of his uniform, the design slightly altered, more rounded, friendlier, off-center on his chest. He presents it to you once he has broken his silence and revealed the partial truth he has fed his friend and the rest of the GDA. You look over him, circling, flicking the cape with a dismissive hand and shaking your head.
“Obviously, you look good. Dashing.” Your hands trail down the design on his front, settling on his strong chest. “It’s just stupid.”
He has grown used to your bite and enjoys the proverbial and physical teethmarks you enjoy leaving in your wake. He teases, “You’re an expert, aren’t you?” Your eyes fly to him in warning, a storm threatening to unleash.
“Oh, hush up, Carl… I hate it.” His lips press against your cheek in a small kiss. You must feel the smile on his lips because you chuckle good-naturedly, disarmed. “This Cecil guy can just call you out of the blue? So you can risk your life? Now that’s plain stupid.”
“I think you remember I am made of stronger stuff than your Earth villains. Did I not demonstrate it well enough?”
“Mmm… maybe not. Maybe I need a reminder? I’m only human after all.”
“There is nothing small about you.”
“I strike the fear of God into you?”
“Should I lie or say yes?”
“Good boy,” you taunt, but he finds himself all the more charmed. You pat his shoulders. “You better keep an eye on this man. I don’t want this Cecil coming here and bugging our house. Now get out of this costume, I need you in the backroom.”
It takes him a beat too long to realize, as he follows behind you, eager. “Our?”
Life on the farm is peaceful, more so than he rightly deserves. Yet he lets the drag of his former years fall behind him. It takes effort to recall there is a war beyond this blue sky, the work on the land, the caring of his mate, of his children.
You announce your pregnancy on a day like any other. The earth beneath him does not shake and crack, and the phantoms of his past do not claw at his shins, seeking to drag him down to follow them. Conquest does not answer their calls.
A planet, in the opposite quadrant – he recalls the name easily enough – Llorth A. It had housed a few billion Viltrumite-like people. Their pastel skins and smooth faces had not been an issue for the Viltrumite sent down to procreate with them. Incompatibility between the two species had made the resulting offspring unviable, unable to progress past the first months of gestation. A younger soldier by the name of Nolan, if his memory served, had wiped out the population after his four children resulted in failure.
His love courses through his entire body, rippling like shockwaves. It moves the whole of him. You squeak when he picks you up, as light as a feather. You struggle to balance against his chest, needing to spread your knees and hold onto his neck. Once settled, you chastise and yip, demanding an answer.
He knows before the thought even forms that he could never fulfill his mission were your children to fail. “Honeybee, are you certain?”
“No, I make a point of faking pregnancy when out of wedlock, you know, for fun.” Carl deflates, only catching the true meaning of your words when you raise hell the likes of which he has never seen. You marry in the human manner soon after.
The gold band on your finger is a pretty sight, but you make a prettier one with a rounded belly. He enjoys feeling the life within and talking to his child. He has long come to the conclusion that his mission is a failure. A partial one at least.
Guilt, something that has never roused within him, grows all the more. The truth hangs over him, silent, lying in wait. Devastation will rain and claim all good on this planet. The Empire is a hungry beast, more voracious than the Rognarr that tore at his flesh. They will eat and consume, devour each planet and every moon, and never be sated.
“One day,” he speaks to his firstborn when he is still too young to understand, “The sky will darken with the might of the Empire. You will have to be ready then, to protect your mother and your Home.”
The babe in his arms coos back, a face just like his mother looking back at him. His bee is not yet ready for the whole truth, nor is the GDA.
The years pass, and your family grows in your quiet corner of the world. Liberation still serves dutifully. Life is sweet, honeyed. The weight bearing down on his shoulders grows. The truth will out, Conquest taunts, it will unravel and leave a terrible wake.
Your youngest son gets his powers first, and very young too. His bee has the pleasure of finding out that when he comes to hug you one afternoon. The boy can only reach your waist, but it’s plenty enough to cause real damage.
When your son rushes you, chased by your oldest in their usual play pursuits, a deafening crack like a splintering resounds in the quiet afternoon. He sees your mouth moving as a terrible wailing follows suit.
You’re half-twisted away from him when he pushes his boy aside, deaf to his cries, the image of your body like a crumpled flower incensing him. You brace against his chest, teeth gnashing to hold in your screams.
His oldest, shaken from the sight, snaps when he yells at him. The child rushes for the phone, leaving his youngest son to look on as he lowers you down to the ground. Your painful sounds shock sobs out of him.
His small calls for you go unheard, unanswered, as you writhe in pain and he takes stock of your injuries.
His small voice calls out helplessly, “Mama?”
There is no blood. Your hip and pelvis are impacted. Your upper leg, too. Fractures, Carl assesses, a broken femur.
“I’m–I’m–” His child bawls when his brother comes running back, house phone in hand. “I’m sorry!”
He long regrets the low boil of anger in his gut, his inability to look upon his son’s visage.
The GDA is always aflutter with activity. The medical wing especially. Today, however, it seems quiet.
Cecil graces his family with a visit, ruefully smiling. Carl reads the strain in his expression easily enough. It is clear on his face, as it has always been to him: this was bound to happen. And better it be inside your home, than out there in the world.
In the room, when Cecil is gone and you sleep off the anesthesia, his oldest son sleeps, and his youngest stares up at you from the side of your bed.
“Connor,” He calls out to him softly, mindful. His son turns to him, sniffles, mute since the incident. “Come to me.”
His son walks slowly to him, looking back at his bee like she might wake once he turns away.
“You are strong, powerful.” The child looks up at him with wet eyes, tear tracks on his soft cheeks, a thumb in his mouth. Carl wraps his one good arm around his back, nestling him close. “It is a great gift, but it is a bigger responsibility. You must never make use of this strength towards your mother, towards any human. Do you understand?”
He is so young still, a single nod makes his entire body jolt forward. He slips his thumb from his mouth, wiping his drool on his shirt. He stares at the ceiling, then back at you, then smacks his lips. “Why…” As children of this world usually do, or so you had explained, he sounds out of breath. “Conrad is normal, why… Why aren’t we normal?”
“You are normal.” Your voice rises, weak and shaky. Connor jumps, turning in his arm to look at you from the bed. Your eyes are heavy with sleep, unfocused. They look almost closed. “You’re your own normal, baby.”
At your request to hug him, he slips Connor onto the bed, holding onto the back of his neck when his son snuggles up against your chest, a perpetual reminder of his strength and to remain gentle. Something flutters inside his chest when you shush your child, consoling him as you fall back asleep.
Conrad wakes up too late for this moment and pitches a fit that startles you awake at the sight of Connor in your arms.
“You’re treating them like child soldiers.” You are resolute in your word choice. There is ice in your voice, there has been for the past month since Carl ceded and revealed his ugly truth.
It is an improvement. You had not spoken to him for two weeks.
His sons had split in the middle; Connor following you in your silent ire, and Conrad cushioning the blows alongside him.
They have been training since Conrad’s gifts awoke, only openly since Carl has retold a fraction of the atrocities he committed in the name of the Viltrumite Empire, and warned of the terror they would come to wage here.
His bee has turned a powerful stinger towards him. The dregs of his past, of Conquest, widen the chasm between them.
There is rolling anger in your voice, ready to snap like thunder from the sky. But he can read you, he can sense the fear underlying your every word. “They’re still children.” You shakily exhale, swaying, “They shouldn’t have to live through this.”
You draw your shoulders up like a warning when he instinctively reaches for you. The sight tears at him, hurting the soft tissue lodged behind his ribs. His hand limply falls back at his side. “I will lay down my life before anything were to befall them or you.”
You look past the porch, watching your boys sprawled on the ground beyond the fields, recuperating before Carl makes his way back to them. You steady yourself, leftover pain from the incident years ago zapping up your leg. When he reaches for you this time, you don’t protest, but you don’t lean in as you usually would.
“I am sorry. I’ve betrayed you, your trust.” He must have said this dozens of times by now. His heart shrinks the same manner every time you refuse to acknowledge it.
Today, you answer, embittered. “Enough of that.” The wind is cool so early in the morning. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafts from inside. And his bee looks tired. “It’s not helping anyone, the way I act. And it’s sure as hell ain’t gonna change anything.”
You sigh out, “I don’t want to fight anymore, sugar.” You’ve only looked so small a handful of times before. You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his as you turn to face the house. “Get me inside, would you?”
“One day, the might of the Empire will darken our sky.” His sons know his words well by now. They still listen with rapt attention. “You must make ready for their arrival. They are nothing like what you face when you serve your team. They are ruthless killers. They will not see the value of our home. They will see opportunity.”
“Dad?” Connor asks, once their training is over and the sun sets over the hills. “Are we strong enough?”
So far away from the light of the farmhouse, darkness sets in fast. Their fire rages on, casting enough light to discern their faces. He looks over his children, battered and exhausted in the low light.
You have chosen to stay far away from their training, unable to stomach the sight of your sons being roughed up even the slightest. The boys themselves can’t bear the look on your face when you see them in that state. Carl still sees your reproachful look in his mind when he answers, voice a mere growl, “Were I to answer that, it would mean you giving up, or becoming complacent. Which one will it be, son?”
A knot forms on Connor’s brow, but Conrad searches his father’s face. “Are you strong enough, dad?” His oldest chances a look at the stump below his arm, as his brother continues, “You said you’re one of the oldest, does that make you stronger?”
“No.” His straight answer creates a vacuum, all the air seems to seep out between them. “Age plays a factor, but I am stronger because I am cruel.”
They startle, frowning, unable to reconcile this idea with the man before them.
“The day the Empire sends out its forces, they will call for me. They know me under a different name. They will call me their thing, their tool.”
“Liberation?”
A self-pitying smile stretches his lips. “They will call for Conquest.”
You’ve never seen it before. You wish you didn’t have to. The sight makes you sick.
Your husband retrieves it from the bowels of the house, hidden away under the floor of the farmhouse. It’s massive, made to fit. Your stomach turns when you spot a flash of white among the earth where it once rested. The uniform.
How many have died with this being the last thing they ever saw?
You’re frazzled. He sees it easily enough. “You just… you put it under our house?”
“Where else? I knew I would need it one day. To protect our family.”
He strips unashamedly in the living room, revealing the worked line of his abs and chest. After all these years, in these circumstances, your heart jumps in your chest. You still don’t look away, roving over his skin, the tightly packed muscles. You know how little give there is, how much power lies in wait, how much space you need to accommodate his bulk.
Your thoughts simmer down when he grabs the arm and, in a practiced way, guides it to his stump. It makes a terrible, clicking wet sound as it attaches. Nerves connecting to metal, subjugating the machinery to their will.
You feel dizzy with more than just fright and awe.
The metal hand flexes, each finger responding to his command. Carl is looking at you. “Honeybee?”
You sigh, resigned and shocked to uncover something new from you. “I think I need you in the backroom, is all.”
The sky does not darken the day of the Empire’s arrival.
In fact, it’s a perfect sunny day out. The boys have managed to catch the bus in time this morning, Carl is off saving lives as Liberation somewhere in East Africa, and the baby is settled and asleep in the upstairs nursery.
You feed the geese, check on the hives, do a perfunctory tour of the barn, and leave the cows to pasture. The weather is still cool in the morning, causing you to shiver as you work up a sweat. The baby monitor still shows a face lax with sleep.
A peaceful morning like any other.
The phone rings a few times as you make your way back to the house. Neighbors inviting you over for a rematch after last week’s game night, asking for Carl or some eggs; the town’s preschool asking for the available dates for orchard picking…
Caught in the monotony, you almost don’t see him. Your gaze passes right over him as you go to hang up the phone.
A point in the distance stands out against the blue backdrop. A man, smaller than Carl, leaner, younger, meaner in the face.
The white of his clothing has you swallow your words.
The momentary terror causes you to stall in your tracks. Despite the mental checklist you’ve taken pains to memorize, you execute everything too slowly, too clumsily.
You’ve barely finished when the front door comes crashing into the back wall. A shower of plaster and glass rains down. Above you, tiny lungs fill up in fright. Before you can climb up, the Viltrumite enters your house.
He steps in casually, as if walking on shattered glass and splintered wood came naturally to him. The cries from above do not faze him. His features are sharp. Despite what you had been told, you realize you had expected an alienness to them, not just a humanoid.
The man has you pinned with his gaze alone.
“Where is Conquest?”
Stall. Say something. Follow the plan.
“He’s not… here.” Your baby is still distressed upstairs. You feel your fear knot in your chest.
The man makes a disinterested sound in the back of his throat, sweeping the living space with a single look before appraising you. It feels like a bird of prey looking to feed. “You do look similar to us.” Your chest heaves with your every breath as you fail to settle your nerves under his eyes.
Your words fail you. You hear the whistle of the wind building, drawing closer. Well familiar with that sound, a semblance of relief washes over you.
Before you can breathe out, the man is at your side, hand tangled in your hair. “Your womb holds some value, but there are billions more just like you. Behave.”
The house shakes with the shockwave of your sons closing in. The cries above disappear, quieted. Immobilized, you feel fear descend upon you in one fell swoop. The cries relayed through the monitor ceased at the same moment.
The alien walks you out, exasperated as you stumble to keep up with his strides. Your sons hover in the air. Whatever the man sees, he must find acceptable.
He speaks to himself, “Good. Humans have their use then.”
He raises his voice to address your sons, “Conquest settled here?” He asks, “This place looks too small for a set of those.” He wrenches your head back, unimpressed. “Where are the others?”
“Let go of her!” Conrad yells, unable to rein in his anger. Connor looks just about ready to bow and break.
“Is that one your mother?” The alien asks dispassionately, tugging your head back to take your features in and looking back at your son. “Hmm. Good stock, I suppose.”
You feel the ripples in the air before you see them charge.
You searched and searched and searched as cries rang out from outside. Your heart thundered inside your chest. Digging through, your hands slice open on broken glass. The pain only fuels you, the sight of blood, red and dark, makes you angry.
Try to think, you screamed at yourself, perhaps in your head, perhaps aloud. The room was turned upside down. You tried to remember where each piece of furniture once was. The windows had been punched in by the sheer force behind each blow. Blow. A man, a killer, was out there, battering your babies. Baby, your baby had stopped crying and was in here, beneath your blood and your fruitless digging.
You plunged back in, overturning a wardrobe. Nothing, no trace. But he was here, he was here and buried and–
Your body spins with the force of the impact as a body crashes through the roof and into the hallway.
“Connor!” You yell out, scrambling to get to his side. Looking down, you see red, flowing from his nose, thick and viscous. Your son takes your face in, pure terror on his face. Ragged wheezes escape his throat as he tries to breathe in. His eyes are wet.
“Mommy…” He shakes his head, looking back up through the tear in the roof. “Get Caleb and get out of here.” Your son wipes off the blood on his chin as he gets up, eyes fixed on the sky. You don’t dare say the ugly truth as he flies off.
For a moment, all is quiet.
The moment stretches. The cattle have quieted, still restless but now lowing slowly. The overturned earth of your farm gives the impression that a giant knife has been stabbed deep into the ground and dragged through.
The ruins of your home behind you threaten to give out. Your hands are numb, your fingers reduced to a pulpy, bloody mess you can’t stomach to look at. Your baby is gone.
You fall to your knees, the silence deafening, and cry.
You stay still, staring at the sky for a long time.
At first, it looks like a wound in the sky. A bloody, treacly tearing through the clouds. Then the gore sheds, drawing closer, becoming clearer to the eye.
A scream tears from your lungs as your body lunges forward.
Your son lands first, slumping to his knees upon reaching the ground. Your husband holds your oldest up against his side and gently deposits him next to his brother. The latter claws at the earth below and rolls on his back, drained.
You bring your husband’s face, stained and battle-scarred, down to your level, relief overtaking you when a slow smile forms on his lips. You have to blink away your tears to look at him properly. You tug your sons close, looking over their faces, lips trembling when you see a split lip, broken nose, forming scars, and black eyes.
“It’s done…” Carl says, “It’s over for now.” He looks you over, rolling your bruised hands in his. You’re still bleeding.
The roars of engines come over the horizon, closing in. Cecil. You remain silent, caught in this moment of peace before it’s stolen away.
The thought of your baby tears through the calm building up. The words can’t make it past your lips. Your throat closes, your eyes sting. When he asks for Caleb, you can't answer.
Epilogue
On his cameras, Cecil watches the two aliens leave the stratosphere, followed closely by Carl’s two sons. They can barely keep up with the two adults' superior speed. Donald orders connections to the satellites to keep the fight in frame.
As luck would have it, three are downed in the following minute. The last images, as clear as they can be, show the Viltrumite fending off the two teenagers with ease. Over dozens of screens, scenes replay for further analysis, as they seek weaknesses to exploit.
It’s a shame the kids aren’t stronger as is. There is an obvious power disparity. His friend strikes harder and faster. But the boys have gotten in the way before. Cecil’s mind reels with the probabilities, the outcome of this fight.
At least they have the baby. Caleb has been whisked off to the medical wing – nowhere else in this facility is exactly child-friendly after all.
“Should we fetch her, sir?” Donald asks in an aparté, “She’s out of the way now.”
Cecil dismisses him out of hand. “Taking the baby was risky enough. We’ll wait for the dust to settle.” His staff do not comment on his decision, but he feels the looks he gets weigh heavily. He feels enough like an asshole all on his own. He’s eaten at your table, exchanged best wishes and holiday cards, and gotten into many heated arguments when he and Carl recruited your children into Teen Team. You’ve salted his coffee, and he’s traded veiled insults with you for years.
You’ll have skin, that he’s certain.
A monitor to his left is replaying the conversation between Carl and the Viltrumite, working translation and psych. The whole room has been privy to Nolan’s fury, his disgust.
“You’re outmatched, Nolan.” His friend simply states, on a loop, before his staff plays through the rest of the video. “Your empire is failing, and I herald its death.”
“This planet has made you soft in the head, Conquest, you and your half-breeds!” The alien sneers, despite the tolling roll of his anger, he still has the focus of a soldier.
“This name has no meaning to me. I am your monster no longer.”
“So you will not fight? I will put you down, sickened as you are.”
“But I will fight,” Carl answers, “I will eradicate anyone, any that may come that threaten my home, my bee or my children. They have given me purpose, a name, and not even you, or the Grand Regent, will be spared.”
“Dad,” Conrad says, bloodshot eye staring at the alien, “He hurt mom.”
At once, Carl sheds the crimson cape from his shoulders. Seeing their father, both Connor and Conrad hasten to do the same. Carl spends a moment looking over his sons before facing Nolan once again. “Make ready, Nolan. Die proud of your fading empire.”
The video pauses as the alien rushes forward, then replays from the beginning. The three people manning the console speak in low tones about potential mental weaknesses, working the alien into a fever pitch to throw him off his game.
Cecil looks at the lost signal error message on the screen for the satellites, and hopes his friend will be the one to part through the clouds upon reentry.