Chapter 16 - What Do You Want to Talk About?

CHRISTINE WEATHERS - WASHINGTON DC

"You bombed Australia?!" President Weathers screamed into the phone, testing the limits of its microphone quality. She could feel a cold sweat running up her spine, and although her hair had already gone white from stress almost two decades ago, she imagined that it would otherwise be falling out right now.

To the passing observer, it was as if Christine had disappeared. No longer did the straight-backed and icy cold woman who commanded silence through her physical presence exist. Instead, what had once been an eloquent and professional individual was replaced with a snarling and furious creature that subsisted entirely on its own rage. With each heaving breath, she sent spittle flying, and her hands gripped her desk with such force that her knuckles went the color of marble.

White House staff - who had spent the entire morning running around the building in a panic, delivering dossiers, adjusting Christine's schedule, and providing further terrible news - were waiting outside the door, entirely too frightened to enter.

"The decision was made with the approval of the Australian government. Civilian evacuations were no longer tenable, without access to the harbor or the-"

"You bombed Australia! You opened up the possibility for thermonuclear warfare, you fucking prick!" she hollered. She could hear a wavering uncertainty in the voice of the British ambassador, Douglas Ambles, with whom she was sharing the conversation.

"Miss Weathers, I assure you, the loss to civilian life was minimal - the Australian government estimated that within twenty-four hours the entire East coast would be firmly under the enemy's control. They were the ones to ask us to drop the bomb. Additionally, military intelligence suggests that the enemy were unprepared for such an assault, and based on satellite imaging of the attacks, we were likely able to neutralize a tremendous amount of their ground forces in the region. The three strikes were all tremendous successes-"

"Success? You blew up three cities, killed God knows how many innocent people, for the sake of delaying the enemy. Not stopping, mind you, delaying."

"Yes, Miss Weathers. We did. It was an unfortunate gamble and sacrifice, but it was a strategic victory. I suggest we use this opportunity to prepare for further counterattacks, and gain intel from surviving Australian forces."

"And you chose not to at the very least inform me, or the rest of Five Eyes beforehand? It's not easy to support a trusting relationship if your own allies won't-"

"Unfortunately, Miss Weathers, you seem to be under the assumption that the world is at America's beck and call for every single issue that should arise. Your mindset has thrust us - and the rest of the world - into war."

Douglas' voice went low as he dropped his civil facade.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking you are the only country to have made sacrifices in this war. The Australian and British people have always been tied by blood. Now that blood is on our hands."

Christine scoffed internally. Australia and Britain were indeed close, and were both members of the Five Eyes group, a strategic intelligence community which had intended to ensure strong and transparent relationships between each of its membership countries; a goal it appeared to have failed in executing.

"And more of it will be, at this rate. I look forward to the end of this war - we'll have done more damage to each other than we did to them!" Christine spat. Not eager to hear his response, she slammed the phone and leaned back in her chair, blowing off steam.

She wondered if she would have made the same decision in their place; if the entire East coast of her own country was burning, would she be willing to give the order? It was not an illogical decision; the enemy had made a tremendous numerical push onto Australia, and lost many of its forces in response. But at the same time, nuclear weapons were a Pandora's box she would have rather had remained closed. If the enemy was not prepared for a nuclear attack yet, they certainly were now, and they would perhaps be more accommodating in their tactics in response.

Unfortunately, the Brotherhood was not the only threat that she and her staff had to contend with. Turning to her desk, she flipped open an intelligence dossier. Inside was a transcript of a number of extremely irritating Chinese news broadcasts, timestamped as having occurred within two hours of the nuclear attack. Christine frowned - the Chinese were proving aggravatingly capable of getting ahead of the West when it came to placing a negative spin on things. Not that there was much of a positive spin to put on a nuclear attack, but…

"The British nuclear attack is estimated to have caused several thousand human casualties along the Australian East coast. The Chinese government has already released a public statement, decrying the use of nuclear weapons in an offensive capacity against allied targets, and claims that it was an 'irresponsible act' and a 'quick and dirty solution'. Environmental experts are working to ascertain what the damages to marine life will be along the Eastern coast, and whether there is a possibility of sea or air currents carrying radioactive isotopes towards Southern China."

Below, another quote, this time directly from the president of the CCP, Xi Jingping.

"The West proves itself to be once again a reckless and uncontrolled society, wielding its nuclear warfare with a disregard for human life. I can only hope that, should the enemies of mankind find themselves landing on our shores, they will be more hesitant to sacrifice lives in the pursuit of victory - though I fear that history's actions will be repeated."

Christine found each sentence more annoying than the last. As much as she disagreed with the nuclear attack, she would never dream of saying anything so publicly about it. The second the facade of unity between the governments of the Earth cracked, there would be no victory. Already, she was dealing with an overburdened National Guard, attempting to contain riots throughout most major cities in the country - imagine if they thought we didn't know what we were doing, she considered.

Picking up the phone, she made another call, this time to the Chinese - a remonstration was due. Impatiently, she tapped her foot. It seemed that even the office of the presidency was subject to being put on hold, much as she did not appreciate it. Her eyes flickered between the notes on her desk, and her watch. She traced the seconds hand spiral around the clock face, once, twice, a third time…

The hospital waiting room was cold. A young Christine, only twenty-six, and freshly graduated from Harvard law, draped a shawl around her shoulders. Her fingers wrapped around a flip phone, which she knew she should be using to make important calls or read important messages. Instead, it was dangling, asleep, from her fingertips. A set of earbuds graced her ears with a Queen song. As she let the lyrics wash over her, her eyes burrowed holes into the floor - she could see what appeared to be graffiti; the result of someone with a Sharpie and too much free time.

"Bored?" it read.

Christine was anything but. Although she sat perfectly still, her mind was on fire. Her mother sat next to her, nervously watching the television in the corner of the room, which was reporting on the progress of Barack Obama's presidential campaign. Christine could tell that her mother's attention was elsewhere, however.

The two were distracted by the timely arrival of a doctor, whose hand Christine shook as she stood upright, plucking her earbuds out.

"Hi. I'm Doctor Peltonac," he said. Christine's mother was quick to interrupt.

"Is he alright?"

Doctor Peltonac nodded, though Christine noted a grimness in his eyes.

"Yes, he'll be alright, for the immediate future. He's not awake now, but I can take you to see him."

Christine's mother nodded eagerly as Christine simply watched the conversation unfold. The doctor began to lead the group into Urgent Care, but as her mother followed him through the doors, Christine waited for a moment. She glanced down at the word written on the floor, and stared with a stoic expression. Pushing her shoe onto the graffiti, she ground out the markings underfoot. Lifting her foot off the floor, she could see the word had become smudged and illegible.

She turned, following her mother.

"President Weathers, an unexpected surprise. How may I help you?" replied Zhang Jun, his voice dripping with a saccharine insincerity.

"You could explain why your government is spitting at the West's," she answered. "I have reports that your media coverage of recent military actions has been…unfavorable."

"I assure you, the Chinese media reports nothing but the truth. The government does not approve of this barbaric attack-"

"Spare me, Zhang. We both know that your country would have willingly engaged in the exact same sort of maneuver had they been under threat. Or imagine if Japan was on the verge of capitulation? Your government would be singing a very different song."

"Unfortunately, Miss Weathers, it is not. The Chinese people appreciate the constancy and certainty of their government's position. Our country's distaste for the excesses and violations of the West is no secret, and so it gives our people solace to recognize that our decision to work together has not made us complacent to your failings."

"Zhang, the Earth is under siege from aliens, and you're taking the opportunity to propagandize?" she asked, incredulously. "I understand that your people are looking for a little bit of faith right now, but what you're doing is inciting a populist split from the rest of the world; that's a dangerous conversation to be having. Wars have started that way, and people have died for less."

"The Chinese would never betray the well-being of its allies, even those of convenience," said Zhang calmly. "Just as I'm sure the West would never perform a nuclear attack on China's doorstep."

Christine grimaced.

"More than once, you have failed to keep the CCP aware of you and your allies' intentions. Perhaps you should question your own behavior. Wars have started this way, too."

Christine remained silent. It was not the first time in her life that she had encountered someone who may have been right, but was far too much of an asshole for her to admit it. However, in this case, she was blameless - the British and the Australians were responsible for relaying that sort of tactical information to the nearby regions, not her.

"I did not ask to be the commander of Earth's militaries, Zhang. Other nations do not act at my whims. I will not accept blame for a failure of communication between you and the British."

"Nor do I expect you to. But please, Miss Weathers… you handle your allies. Let China handle its media. We shall both do what we are best at, yes?"

Christine let out an angered grunt of affirmation.

"Very well. Good day, Miss Weathers."

The line went dead as Christine slowly set the phone down upon its receiver and leaned back in her chair yet again. Earth had been at war for less than a week, and already unexpected problems were arising.

Then again, if there was one thing Christine had much experience in, it was unexpected problems. Her political career was built off of her ability to adapt to them. If the Chinese wanted to fling mud, they could do so. She had bigger problems to worry about.

GORAST - OFF THE COAST OF INDONESIA

Gorast stewed in her chambers aboard the Teridax's Will. She, along with the fleets of Krika and Bitil, had just recently arrived off the coast of an island chain that had been identified as a suitable capital for the Brotherhood. With a great deal of annoyance, she had watched Bitil lead his fleet south towards the first major continent in the area in hopes of claiming a foothold on its Eastern region. This had left her alone with Krika - a being she very rarely spoke to, if she could help it - performing the menial task of maintaining a blockade of the area. Most days passed with little to no enemy activity, though on particularly lively days, a cargo ship or fishing trawler would find itself being used as target practice by her fleet. On at least two occasions, a small and ragtag fleet of enemy ships would attack her blockade, though it had quickly been established that patrol boats with small autocannons did little to sink battleships. After the second attack, it seemed that an uneasy ceasefire had been reached between her flotilla and the enemy.

She loathed the concept. Every fiber of her being urged her to take the opportunity to strike out and crush her foes where they stood. She knew they lacked the adequate might to fight her and her forces. The thought of bringing Teridax's divine will unto the enemy made her quiver with delight, but every time the thought presented itself, the irritatingly present words of Icarax did so as well - "You are not to make any offensive pushes."

Thus, Gorast was struck with the boredom of quiet and calm. In order to rectify this issue, she had - as she often did when facing such issues as an abundance of free time - begun to turn her attention to her armada. Relentlessly, she drilled her troops, demanding perfect performance from them. Her ships ran firing drills, loading and unloading their weapons, taking aim, and practicing for combat. Initially, she had indeed forced them to use structures on the surrounding islands as targets, though she quickly realized that, at the rate she was going, she would not have the ammunition to spare if the fleet was engaged in a major battle - and without any foundries to produce more, it would be some time before a resupply could occur.

Meanwhile, aboard the decks of her ships, or on the beaches of islands that she felt were suitably devoid of enemy life, she began asking Chirox for any beings from his "reject pile". Strange and hideous creatures were teleported into the cargo holds of her ships, and her troops were given the order to engage. She was satisfied that the fights kept a keen edge to her soldiers' blades, and maintained the fear of death in their minds. She would not tolerate even the notion of fear from her troops, unless it was her they were fearing.

Some of them would find themselves gored and bleeding, or choking as acid filled their veins, but the drilling effects of live combat tests far outweighed the insignificant amount of losses she had suffered numerically. And even if they hadn't, it hardly concerned her; she had more than sufficient troops to fight a battle, and could not care less for any individual lives among them. If a soldier was insufficiently prepared to kill a Rahi, then she was certain they would be of no use in combat.

As she had for many days now, she watched with a finely-crafted Kanohi-mounted scope from the prow of the Teridax's Will. A Pike of Matoran awkwardly fought their way around a large stone-ape-like creature, to surprising success. She had no sympathies towards their plight of being smaller and weaker than other species, and expected them to operate just as effectively in the field.

Her observation was interrupted by the presence of a cough from behind her, prompting her to glance at its source - a Barramoi who seemed to seek her attention. Turning away from the Barramoi and maintaining a watchful eye on the Matoran, she flatly asked "What?"

The Barramoi, taking an awkward tone, spoke.

"Mistress, there seems to have been an issue with the land assault."

Gorast cocked her brow.

"What sort of issue?"

"The… Oroha communications from the land assault are not favorable. They describe the enemy attack as being somewhat devastating in its proportions."

"Go on," she asked, feeling a cold anger in her chest. She attempted to suppress it and remain stoic.

"Marshall Tengi reports that over half of his troops have been…" the Barramoi swallowed nervously. "...killed in action."

Gorast's grip upon the railing of the ship tightened, and she could feel it crumple in her fist. She whirled around, snarling at the messenger.

"The incompetent fool, how in Karzahni could the primitives have-"

"He claims that the enemy utilized a series of Nova Blasts to destroy each of the three primary targets!" the Barramoi said, cowering. Gorast glared angrily, before her rage began to turn into fear.

The enemy is willing to use Nova Blasts so soon? Can they all do them? How can we fight them?

"Does Bitil know that his operation was a failure?" she asked, shaking, though keeping the motion invisible to the messenger. The Barramoi shook his head in the negative.

"I had it delivered to you first, Mistress-"

"Good. I will deliver the news myself. Leave me," she said, dismissing the being with the wave of a claw. Not needing to be told twice, he scrambled away from the Makuta, and she turned her gaze back towards the beach.

If we cannot mount an offensive operation without an immediate Nova Blast response, there is no way we can win this fight. They could destroy an entire legion with a single being, and if they have no compunctions about leveling their own cities to do so…

Gorast, an entirely mechanical being, had no reason or capability to sweat, or hyperventilate. Nonetheless, if she had been capable of it, she would be doing so. The entire world began to spin around her head as she looked down into the seawater below. She tried to focus on the waves moving in and out, and achieve a sense of calmness and rhythm, but the movement simply made her feel sick. Staggering away from the railing, she activated her wings and leapt into the air off the side of the ship before crashing into the water below. Sinking down, she took advantage of her lack of a requirement to breathe, and simply allowed herself to drift.

The water was cool, and refreshing to her. She floated in the murky blue, attempting to calm herself. She was the instrument of Teridax, hand-picked to execute his will. She was capable. She was strong. She would not falter. Her master would not have given her an impossible task, and she had never known defeat before. These primitives represented a new and unique challenge, but not one that she would lose to. Teridax's will was eternal, uncompromising, and iron-clad. She was not a part-time believer in the divinity of her task, she was a zealous fanatic, who felt nothing in the cold and dark abyss of the sea but the warm and loving embrace of Teridax and his plan.

She would rise. She would conquer.

With a black flash, Gorast appeared aboard the Tyrant King, Bitil's flagship. It was floating some many mio away from the target, though nonetheless smoke could be seen on the horizon. The entire sky was scorched and darkened. The sight briefly froze Gorast in her tracks, but she ignored it, heading for Bitil's chambers, where she expected him to be lurking and plotting as he always did.

Barging past guards and sailors alike, she made her way inside the ship's structure and to Bitil's cabin. Thrusting the doors open, she stormed into it.

It was a strange sight. Several paintings hung on the walls, along with carvings of epic poems. Plantlife grew somewhat, though it was obvious that some had been burnt, or cut, or otherwise maimed by the Makuta. A table at the center of the room held a small music box, which played a recording of an ancient symphony from the time of the League of Six Kingdoms. Next to it was the board for a game of Voa (30), though many of the pieces were missing or scattered across the floor - it appears he had recently lost a match.

Alongside the table stood Bitil himself, a large tablet arranged in front of him. Several ceramic bowls sat at his feet, each containing a colored dust, and one containing a jelly-like liquid. Unflinching at her arrival, Bitil mixed the jelly and dust together before placing a reed brush within the bowl and tracing a bright red line across the tablet.

"I don't recall you ever bothering to announce your presence before barging onto my ship," said Bitil, calmly. Before him was a vibrant display of a vista of the Southern Continent, and a village burning.

"I need no such announcement. My presence makes itself known," Gorast said. Bitil nodded.

"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure," he said, retaining his gaze on the painting.

"Your operation was a failure," said Gorast. Bitil turned, with a surprised look.

"Failure?"

"I was informed first - it appears your chain of command is sluggish, brother. The enemy unleashed a coordinated series of Nova Blasts, destroying the offensive. Your medical ships are likely taking on patients as we speak."

Bitil stared before setting the brush and paint down.

"You're absolutely sure? This isn't a trick?"

"You can see the smoke on the horizon yourself. Icarax will not be pleased-"

Gorast was interrupted as Bitil let out an angered yell, striking his foot against the bowls of paint, which splattered across the floor. Angrily, he thrust his fist towards the painting, but stopped himself a Kanohi's width from touching it. Instead, he whirled back towards the nearest plant, unsheathing one of his longswords and cleaving it in twain.

Angrily, he stood in silence as Gorast let him vent his frustrations.

"How could they use Nova Blasts, they're not even elemental creatures," Bitil said, coarsely.

"I do not know. I hope that you have an explanation to provide Icarax, as I suspect he will surely not appreciate the loss of several thousand troops."

"The fault is not mine. My tactics were flawless, based on the information I was given."

The two stared at each other.

"What do you want," said Bitil, after a moment of silence. Gorast replied with a cocked brow.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

"I would have found out either way, shortly. You delivered the information to me yourself. I know it wasn't out of any kindness in your heart, so you must want something. What is it?"

Gorast thought for a moment. There was very little Bitil could offer that she could possibly want, except…

"I want command of the next assault. You will be stepping down, and providing the opportunity-"

"No!" Bitil yelled, drowning out the green-armored Makuta. "No, no, no! The offense was mine, it was given to me by right, you cannot take it from me."

"Icarax will find out about your failure soon enough, brother. I suggest you decide where to place the blame before then, lest it fall upon you instead. Icarax will not forgive another failure from you to such a large degree."

"It was not my fault! Vamprah failed to mention-"

The two shared a look. Gorast could tell he was thinking of the same thing as she was.

"Vamprah. He withheld information of tactical value. This was his fault," he said.

"Perhaps. When the time comes, I may be persuaded to side with you before Icarax in that claim."

"In exchange for my command," he said, dryly.

"In exchange for your command. You will be moved to a different station; a lesser station. Perhaps guarding the city, as I do now. Or perhaps blockading the enemy's ports to the North. It does not concern me."

Gorast could see Bitil plotting internally. She knew that any deal she made with him was as good as useless, but it laid a fundamental groundwork for her to use, whether or not he betrayed her in the end.

"I offer you my friendship, sister. You may join me in attacking the landmass-"

"I have no idea what to do with your friendship, brother. Can you show it to me? Can I hold it in my hands? I desire only the opportunity to kill the enemies of Teridax - the opportunity that you have that more deservedly belongs to me."

Bitil lowered his head. Gorast smirked as the Makuta conceded defeat. The coward was easy to control, even at the worst of times - and she always got what she wanted. Bitil's voice wavered, but she could not mistake his words.

"And you shall have it."

THOMAS AMBLES - LONDON, UK

Thomas sat on his balcony, sipping a beer. It was late in the evening, and he had just arrived home from a long day at the office - longer than it should have been. The sun was hanging low in the cloudy gray sky. Somewhere on the streets below, his wife was returning from a local Chinese restaurant with takeout, though he could not see her.

Leaning against the railing, he pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it, turning to his news feed for information. Ever since the aliens had landed, he had become glued to the news in a mixture of fear and wonder. He remembered stories his dad told him of the Cold War, and how he and his father built a fallout bunker in the backyard of their country home. They were so scared back then, of the nukes dropping.

Thomas wondered, as he saw the reports detailing the massacre in Australia, who there had a fallout bunker.

"Fourteen thousand dead," claimed the report, showing maps of Australia. Brisbane, Cairns, and Sydney had all been destroyed. It sent a chill up his spine. Phone footage from evacuating citizens showed the blinding flash of light, and the shockwave that rushed through the entire region. It was the first nuclear attack made in anger in nearly eighty years. Thomas' stomach dropped as he saw a picture of the kilometers upon kilometers of cars backed up on the highway, trying to escape the devastation. Apparently most of the citizens had fled in the days prior, leading to such a low death toll, but even then…he couldn't imagine being stuck on the freeway, watching the bomb drop.

Thomas wondered if his brother Douglas had been in the room when they decided to launch the attack. It was unlikely - but Thomas couldn't help but feel guilty by blood; the English were the ones to drop the bomb. And his brother may have been partially responsible.

The news turned then to footage taken by panicked and fleeing civilians. Thomas could see a bridge, and what appeared to be a military checkpoint at its center. The soldiers manning it fired over the crowd towards something that couldn't yet be seen. The mass of people suddenly parted as what appeared to be a large metal plate stampeded through it, before nestling behind the car, next to the person recording. With awe, Thomas watched the shield drop, revealing a hulking, black creature - larger than any man. It had pearlescent white teeth, glowing red eyes, and was covered in metal, looking to be entirely robotic. It sneered at the photographer, as it was joined by more of its kin - a green one, with a more angular and pointed look to it, a brown one, with speckles of yellow and bright white and red stripes, a blue one, a white one, and a red one. The beings spoke with each other, barking in a strange language that he could not understand.

"Therizak th'ai ann," spoke the black being, with what appeared to be a violent smile on his face. The green one conversed with their allies.

"Moke te i koro ki ai?"

"Gadu pa lutu kai o ai. O'o ro koro paka-lutu ru-kai ima ya, nu-kraka ru-kha na. Ai papaka ya ga te aki," shot back the brown one, glancing over the hood of the car and towards the Australian soldiers.

Their voices were hoarse and sharp, though not at all as metallic as he would have expected from machines. The aliens glanced over towards the photographer, and the blue one barred their teeth at them while the green one kicked them away. The photographer began to scramble away towards the barricade, but was forced to duck as machine gun fire ripped through the crowd, towards the aliens.

The footage ended with a freeze frame of the creatures. They were horrifying to look at - clad in armor, with sharpened teeth and claws, and with a visible disdain for the lives of those around them. Thomas's initial fascination with them quickly came to a quiet horror as he recognized that what he had just seen was six of the enemy, and there was no telling how many more there were.

He wondered briefly if his family still owned that country house with the fallout shelter in the backyard, and if not, who did. He would give anything for a shelter of his own right now. His fear was curtailed by the distraction of the sound of the door to his flat opening; his wife had returned, carrying bags of Chinese food.

"Honey?" she called, looking for Thomas.

"I'm out here," he said, looking at his nearly-empty beer bottle and the setting sun. "I think I need another drink…"