Chapter 20 - A Friend or a Foe
AARON TRENCH - INDONESIA
Aaron awoke to the sensation of a sharp pain, caused by a kick to his side. The second sensation he felt was a distinct and separate pain, coming from the back of his head. With a wince, he immediately pulled away from the source of the blow, and looked around for what could have caused it.
As his eyes cleared and adjusted to the dark, he came face to face with a monster: a strange creature made of metal, with beady red eyes and a mouth like a crab. It was squat and ugly, and carried in one hand a baton of some sort. Its tail swished through the air behind it from side to side, like an aggravated cat. It almost reminded him of one of the aliens from the Halo games - though with the major exception of it being real and right in front of him.
Aaron nearly screamed, but his throat closed up in fear. The creature sneered at him and barked something in its language.
"Tauya," it spat, before turning and stomping away. Aaron could feel his entire body chill, as the creature stalked through the room. Finally taking stock of the area, Aaron could see that the room was full of people, though they looked thoroughly beaten and abused. The creature patrolled the area, delivering a harsh kick to any it found warranting, and Aaron hoped that it would not make a second pass toward him.
Aaron turned to the nearest person - a woman wearing the tattered remains of what appeared to be business casual.
"Where am I?" he asked, to which she glanced at him nervously and placed a finger over her mouth, shushing him.
"Quiet," she said in a whisper. She nodded towards the creature, and Aaron took her meaning.
Aaron slowly rose to his feet, despite the rocking of the room. While he initially took it as him being unsteady after a head injury, he soon realized that everyone else in the room was rocking as well. The room itself was moving, and regularly rocking. So, a boat, he reasoned, as he looked around for some sort of escape or exit.
His search was cut short, however, as the sound of a door opening pulled away his attention. Halfway up the wall, a small balcony sat, behind which a door had just opened. From the doorway emerged another strange metallic being, this one blue and silver. They were much more lithe and skinny, and although they were hunched like the creature patrolling the ranks of humans, they were still undeniably taller. The creature had a series of sharp silver panels along its jaw that gave it an angular impression, and its face was gaunt and skeletal.
Aaron watched as the creature applied a strange transparent covering to its face - a sort of clear mask that was stylized with facial features of its own. He wondered what it was for - was it some kind of breathing mask?
The creature on the balcony cleared its throat, and began to speak (to Aaron's surprise) in English. Its voice was raspy and eerie, and pronounced words in an alien manner, as if it had never heard the language before.
"I am Melis. You are aboard the Fixed Capital, and while you are aboard my ship, you are my property."
The creature pointed towards Aaron and the rest of the humans.
"You are the property of the Brotherhood of Makuta. You live and die at our command. You are no longer beings - you are tools. You will have numbers. You will work. Any sign of rebellion, independence, or cleverness, and you will die. Otherwise, you will live long and prosperous lives in the service of Makuta Teridax. Am I understood?"
Everyone began to suddenly talk amongst themselves as Melis finished his speech, to which a roar came out from the creature among the crowd.
"Shelek ya!" it hollered, instantly killing the crowd's conversation. Aaron winced at the ringing in his ears - the being was particularly loud, and the back of his head was still particularly sore.
"Good. You will be escorted onto ships. From those ships, you will be led to worksites. There, you will obey any and all members of the Brotherhood of Makuta. I want three columns down the center of the room. You have thirty seconds."
The room stood in stillness for a moment, before there was a crack of the being with the baton smacking it against a human's back. Suddenly, there was chaos.
Aaron tried to push his way through a sea of randomly-moving people, as each fought tooth and nail for their position. A particularly large man stumbled into Aaron's path, prompting Aaron to stop and help him upright. The man glanced at Aaron and wordlessly kept moving, leaving him alone.
Twenty-nine seconds later, the room had organized itself into a semblance of three columns, each facing a door at the far end of the room. Aaron had been pushed into the leftmost of the group.
"Each of you will receive a bracelet. It will be marked with a color and number. Commit these to memory."
A light activated above each door, and they all simultaneously opened, revealing smaller, cramped rooms beyond - just large enough for each column of people. From each emerged a short being, standing only as tall as Aaron's chest. They were brightly colored, and usually had a distinctly differently colored face. Each made their way through their column, carrying a box under their arm, handing off a bracelet to each person. As Aaron received his, he inspected it. It reminded him of the paper ones he would receive at music festivals or theme parks - though it was made of some distinctly non-paper material. His was yellow, bearing some strange symbols on it - a series of circles with lines and dots in them that he could not read.
As the small beings finished handing off bracelets, they waited at the back of each column.
"Move into the next room," came the order from above, and this time, the group needed no prompting. Aaron filed into the small room along with around fifty other people. As they settled into the room, compacting themselves against the far wall, the small beings shut the doors; as some of the group screamed in surprise, the room was cast into darkness.
Aaron's palms felt sweaty. Despite the confidence with which he had followed the orders of those strange beings, he had never been so scared in his entire life. He looked around at the various people, all of whom were clearly as terrified as he was. Many had broken down into tears. Others were shaking, talking to themselves, while some just stood straight, staring blankly at the walls.
Aaron's eyes took time to adjust to the darkness, though when they did, he finally made out the sight of the woman from earlier, who had shushed him when he first woke up. Cautiously, he tapped her arm - a task that required some effort considering how densely packed the room was.
"What's going on?" Aaron asked, as she glanced at him, annoyed.
"Are you fucking slow?" she asked, clearly aggravated. She spoke in an Australian accent, leading Aaron to wonder if that's where he was.
"What?"
"I said, are you fucking slow?"
Aaron felt a sting in his pride.
"I - what - no?"
"Did you not hear the guy? You're a slave now."
Aaron glanced at the woman, and the tattered remains of her clothes.
"Well so are you," he commented. She flared her nostrils at him, and turned away.
"Who was the guy?" Aaron asked, hoping she would turn back around to answer more questions. He had a great deal to ask.
"Wh- So you are slow," she replied. Aaron rolled his eyes. "Do you not watch the news?"
"No, I was on a boat for the past while…" Aaron began, before remembering Lisa's yacht. He saw it flash before his eyes - burning, sinking into the water. He saw Lisa's body, and felt tears welling at the corner of his eyes. Angrily, he rubbed his eyes with his shoulders, and forced himself to keep talking.
"Why, what happened?" he asked.
The man nearest to Aaron let out a brief laugh - though it was the kind of laugh that found nothing funny about the situation. The man was darkly-skinned, bald, and spoke with an accent that Aaron could not identify.
"They're aliens, brother."
Aaron's brow furrowed.
"Like… aliens aliens? Space people?"
"Yeah. It's crazy, isn't it."
Aaron felt his breath leave his body. A lot had happened while he was gone.
"P- please, tell me everything that's happened. I need to know."
Aaron spent the next few hours listening to reports from the people around him. The state of the world had changed rapidly in the short time he had been at sea - aliens had landed on Earth, attacked Australia, been repelled by a nuclear strike…he could hardly believe it. It defied everything he knew and understood about the world, the universe, and reality itself.
He began to talk with the people around him. Many were Australian, though several were taken from the outlying islands of the Pacific. Apparently the aliens were part of something called the "Brotherhood", and they had landed directly over French Polynesia. Aaron wondered if they were responsible for the weather anomaly he had detected, though he had no way of knowing. As the Brotherhood expanded its territory, it apparently took as many slaves as it did lives.
This was interrupted by a clang as the door to the room finally opened, flooding the dark room with daylight. Aaron's eyes burned, and he winced, lacking the room to lift his hands and cover them.
Aaron was immediately hit with the telltale signs of a beach: the sound of waves lapping at the shore, seagulls squawking in the air, coupled with the smell of rotting seaweed mingling with salt. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the edge of a jungle, with a large trail of humans and aliens moving through it, deep into the treeline.
At the entrance to the room stood another of the squat crab-mouthed aliens, which gestured for everyone to emerge. Not needing to be told twice, the group began to spill out onto the beach.
As Aaron emerged into the sunlight, he glanced back behind him. It appeared that he and the rest of the humans had been crammed into a cargo container of some sort, and then loaded onto a smaller ship in order to be ferried to shore - which explained some of the turbulence he had felt earlier.
His boat was one of several which had carried slaves to whatever location he had found himself in. There were at least ten on the beach that he could see, though not all of them had slaves emerging from them. Some had the same small beings from earlier carrying out boxes of tools and equipment. Aaron could see shovels and pickaxes, not unlike the ones he would expect humans to use. Considering his position, he realized that perhaps that was the point.
Aaron was quick to inspect the aliens, now recognizing what they were. He had been too terrified to take a close look earlier, and as much as it meant staring directly at people with a proven willingness to whip or beat him if he stood out, he felt compelled.
There seemed to be multiple different types of aliens. Once again he was drawn to the Halo series, and he wondered if they were not unlike the Covenant. All were clad in metal armor, though he could see what appeared to be fleshy parts in their joints whenever they were extended. He wondered if they were maybe mech-suits for small organic creatures, or if perhaps they were like an organic nervous system populating a robotic body - or maybe they were cyborgs.
Of the ones he could see, there were small ones offloading cargo from boats. They were again brightly-colored, wearing strange face masks. Considering they were doing manual labor, he made an internal note - I guess they're the grunts, he thought. There were the squat crab-mouthed ones, that he had seen only a small handful of, but each one carried a whip or baton in hand, and one even a braid of scalps that he hoped were from something other than humans. The slave drivers, then…
Additionally, there were an even smaller number of the tall and thin ones that he had seen on the ship. They seemed to be overseeing the efforts of the grunts, or giving orders to the slave drivers. Overseers.
Lastly, and in great numbers, there were guards - soldiers, Aaron called them - which formed a perimeter around the area. They were taller than a human, and most carried long, musket-like rifles slung over their back, along with at least one knife sheathed at their hip. The majority wore ponchos that were either closed over their body, or left open and worn like a cape over the shoulders. They had strange cheek-flaps that flared or angled as they talked amongst themselves. The backs of their heads featured dreadlocks that reminded him of the aliens from the Predator series. They were broad-shouldered, and looked quite fierce from what Aaron could tell.
The group finished assembling outside the crate, and Aaron felt relief standing on dry land again for the first time in many days. The slave driver who had opened their crate paced along their ranks, inspecting each to make sure their bracelet was still attached. Aaron tried not to look him in the eye when they came face to face. Satisfied with his group, the slavedriver grabbed a box from one of the grunts and poured its contents onto the sand in front of him. Aaron watched a couple dozen shovels and picks fall to the ground. The slavedriver picked up a shovel and tossed it towards the group, with the nearest person almost being hit by it. As someone picked it up from the ground, the slavedriver pointed towards the pile, then the second nearest person.
One by one, members of the group came forward to retrieve a tool - though there were more people than there were tools, leaving the back twenty or so humans without equipment. Aaron had been lucky enough to acquire a flat-head spade, though it looked rusted and there was a crack forming on the handle. Additionally, it was significantly heavier than any shovel he had ever used before - though he could not tell if he was particularly weak or if the shovel was an outlier in weight.
With the group equipped, the slavedriver pointed towards the trail leading into the jungle. Aaron could see grunts cutting down trees, and the occasional plume of smoke from what was likely a fire or piece of heavy machinery within the jungle. Aaron drew a deep breath as reality hit him with the force of a gunshot. He was a slave, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was about to be worked to death by aliens, and he would never see his family again. His eyes watered again, and he did not wipe away the tears this time. His spirit had broken.
Aaron was led through the jungle along with the rest of the yellow-banded group. As they marched, they passed by a number of strange sights - machines with legs like an insect, crawling through the jungle. One large tracked machine, which looked like a piece of upgraded farming equipment, carried two massive whirling sawblades in front of it, which it used to cut down trees with ruthless efficiency. Other machines that seemed too human to be of alien construction -but that he could never identify in a million years - lined the trail.
Finally reaching the end of the trail, Aaron was led to a massive clearing, where he could see two massive piles - one of dirt, and one of rocks - along with hundreds of beings, a crowd composed of both humans and aliens, scurrying about. As the slave driver marched them to the center of the clearing, he could see a large pit, and it dawned upon him what was going on here. He was being put to work in a mine.
The slavedriver led them down the sloped earth floor of the tunnel, which in sections was being replaced by metal sheets. In some spaces, grunts were setting up a metal lattice of evenly spaced beams, and mixing what appeared to be cement. The roof of the mine was held up by a combination of similar metal lattices, wood beams, and other large girders. Every ten meters or so, a single glowing crystal would hang from the ceiling, providing a sole source of illumination, as the tunnel descended deeper into the earth. Every once in a while - albeit very infrequently, there would be a soldier alien in the mine keeping an eye on the prisoners, and glaring at each person that passed by. Aaron suspected they did not like the job.
Arriving at the end of the tunnel, which had at this point done a number of jackknife switchbacks, Aaron could see bare earth before him. The slavedriver pointed towards the earthen wall, and with confusion and hesitation, the group set upon the dirt. Many of them were not manual laborers - Aaron included. He had never used a shovel in earnest, and it was a painful process. He could see the office woman from earlier, who had not been lucky enough to receive a tool. She had initially kept to the side, trying to avoid the slavedriver's gaze.
"He's gonna ask you to dig with your hands," said Aaron, after a while. His back ached and he felt sore all over.
"Hm? What?" she asked, as if she had just noticed he was there.
"I said you have to start digging, or else he's gonna come over and tell you to do it with your hands."
"I'm not digging with my hands!" she said indignantly. Aaron looked at his shovel and back at her.
"Trade?"
She glanced over at Aaron, and the shovel. He could see her temper flare, though after a moment, it subdued. It was as if someone had poured water on an open flame. Wordlessly, she extended a hand, and he passed her the shovel. With a grunt of effort, she drove the shovel into the earth, and pulled a chunk loose, throwing it behind her, and nearly hitting several others.
"Nice," said Aaron, sounding sarcastic, though meaning it in earnest. The woman did not respond.
"I'm Aaron," he said, a moment later, pulling fistfuls of earth out of the wall.
"I don't give a shit," she said briskly. Aaron sighed.
"Look, lady, we're in it now. We're gonna get enough shit from those guys with the batons, I don't need attitude from some of the only humans I know -"
"And I don't need -" she began, before immediately turning back to the wall and digging as fast as she could. Aaron felt the presence of someone behind him. He winced.
The blow he had been anticipating landed on his back, sending him sprawling to the dirt. He felt soil land in his eyes and mouth as his face rubbed into the ground. Another series of blows hit him repeatedly, bringing tears to his eyes.
"Shelek ya. Iro ya ta."
Aaron could not understand the speech of the creature, but he understood the idea behind "shut up and get back to work" clear enough. He could hear the stomps of the creature wandering off, before a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. It was the bald man from the boat. Dusting him off, the man spoke.
"Make fists with your toes. Focus on those, not your back."
Aaron did what he said, and while it did not seem to help much, it did help.
"T- thank you," Aaron said, between tears. "How did you know to -"
"My father used to beat me like that."
"Oh."
The bald man went back to digging as Aaron joined him.
"Michael," said the bald man after a while, introducing himself.
"Aaron," replied Aaron, extending a hand to shake, which was not taken.
"Good to meet you, Aaron. You want to escape, yes?"
"Yeah."
"Stay close to me. We will escape together."
"Okay…"
Despite Michael's promise, the planned escape would not come that day. Nor would it come the next, or even the day after. Each day would go as the last did. They would wake early in the morning before sunrise, and be led from their container - which had been offloaded onto the beach, with its carrying boat nowhere to be seen. Whereas earlier each container had been strictly designated for a band-color group of slaves, they were now a free-for-all. Tools and valuables belonged to whoever could hold onto them, and as long as you reported to your slavemaster at the beginning of each morning, you could do just about anything you wanted during the night.
Every morning and evening, the group would get a communal meal. It was a combination of some sort of gruel that tasted not unlike a more dry oatmeal, and roasted fish. While the fresh fish was conceptually nice, in actuality, it was often served either under- or over-cooked, and unprepared - meaning your options were either to rip a chunk of meat, bones and all, from the burnt or cold fish, or hope that you were first in line and thus able to get a better portion. Aaron declined the fish on the first day, though by the second evening, he was so hungry that he was willing to pick through the guts and gristle of the fish for any scraps of meat.
The aliens had no concept of bodily functions, it seemed. They did not allocate room for latrines or the time to relieve oneself, and so the slaves were left to either go on the beach in the morning or evening, or try to find some privacy in the mine during the day. It was a humiliating process that Aaron hated.
Once a day, around midday as far as Aaron could tell, a large tank of water was passed around the mineshaft along with a ladle, and was the only source of water they would receive before dinner. Aaron was not a dietician, though he understood that it was not enough water for the amount of labor they were doing, and especially not enough when in such tropical heat. Even shielded from the sun as they were, it was not uncommon for a worker to collapse during the day.
Aaron was surprised to see aliens among the slaves as well, though they were undeniably part of the group during the first dinner. There were a few more species than the ones he had identified, though clearly there was no trust between them and the humans, as even the ones in the same band-color group would sit far away from each other.
By day three, Aaron had managed to identify a few of the people in his group. Beatrice was the office woman, a paralegal abducted from Australia during the conflict, and although she had not yet thanked him for the shovel, she had softened in the slightest to his attempts at cordiality.
However, what Aaron was concerned about more than making friends was making an escape. On the fourth morning, Aaron and the rest of the yellow-banded group were being led towards the mine once more.
"Michael… Mike…" Aaron whispered. The bald man, ahead of him in line, glanced over his shoulder.
"Is it happening today?" Aaron asked. Michael nodded slowly.
"Maybe."
Aaron sighed. Michael was not the most outspoken individual.
Shuffling into the cave, the group set about work as normal. That day, however, something critical changed. As they dug, they were disturbed by the presence of a brown-armored grunt flanked by two soldiers, and with a number of other aliens trailing them. From what Aaron could tell, they were overseeing the mining, though it seemed odd that the grunts served such a high position. Aaron wondered if his understanding of the alien hierarchy was flawed.
As he wondered, he suddenly heard the sound of Michael collapsing next to him. Aaron's eyes widened, as he rushed to his friend's side, and tried to jostle him awake.
"Michael!" he hollered. He could see Michael's eyes were cracked open.
"Play along," whispered Michael, staying limp on the ground. Aaron suddenly realized that Michael was not ill or in need of help at all - he was making good on his promise. Whatever he was doing, it was part of their escape attempt.
Aaron continued to pretend to jostle Michael, though he could see Michael maintained a firm grip on his pickaxe. As he did so, he could hear stomping behind him. One of the soldiers had come to kick Michael awake, as they and the slave drivers often did when someone collapsed. The soldier grabbed Aaron by the shoulder and threw him aside. Landing on his rear, Aaron watched the soldier reach down for Michael.
There was a whirl of motion as Michael suddenly swung his pickaxe into the leg of the being. With a tumble and a cry the being crashed to the ground, dropping its slung rifle. Michael was quick, scrambling for the dagger on the being's hip, which he - with an almost practiced-looking efficiency - pulled from its sheath and placed against the being's throat.
"Get up," he said to the being, though both Aaron and Michael knew that the soldiers did not speak English. The entire mine was stunned briefly, with the grunts and remaining soldier watching in awe. This did not last long, as the remaining soldier aimed its rifle directly at Michael.
"Don't shoot! We just want out! We want a boat! You give us a boat, me and my guy here leave, you keep your friend!" Michael shouted, trying to impress his threat upon the aliens. At the same time, the alien hollered phrases of its own, likely to the effect of "drop the knife".
Aaron's heart soared. This was it - the opportunity he had been waiting for.
He was wrong.
A second later, the slavedriver leaped in from the side, tackling Michael and attempting to pull his arm away. As the two brawled, a riot broke out among the humans, as those with tools began to swing them at the slave driver, unleashing the vengeance they had stored up over nearly a week of beatings.
The soldier with the weapon, panicking at the sight, immediately unleashed a shot straight into the crowd, which hit one unlucky person. Blood splattered, and screams began to ring out as the crowd made a stampede towards the exit. The soldier, now overwhelmed by beings, continued to fire indiscriminately - until one shot missed the crowd entirely and struck a supporting column.
Aaron watched the column buckle and sag as the entire roof began to rain dirt. His eyes widening in fear, he began to join the crowd, who had all realized the very real danger they were in. A horde of limbs thundered up the ramp towards the promise of sunlight, sending the grunts crashing to the side. As Aaron joined them, he felt his legs fly out from under him as he sprawled to the ground. Looking back, he paused to see what he had tripped on - before the sight of an arm blown clean off of a body made him nearly lose his breakfast.
Aaron returned his gaze towards the top of the ramp, before he saw the overseer alien. The brown-armored being had fallen to the side, right underneath a metal column, which was beginning to bend in an unhealthy way while the entire ceiling pressed down upon it.
Aaron acted without thinking. One moment, he was watching the events unfold. The next, he had grabbed the alien and pulled it from the path of the column. Not a moment later, the column snapped outwards, in a manner that would have certainly killed them both if they had not moved. Aaron pulled the alien behind him as he continued running for the surface, while more and more slaves realized the danger, rushing towards daylight. Aaron could hear gunfire from the outside - clearly the soldiers did not take kindly to the slaves fleeing from the mine. However, the gunfire soon stopped, as the soldiers likely realized that it was not an escape attempt, but rather beings fleeing for their lives.
Aaron could see the light up ahead - he was almost free. The sound of the ceiling collapsing had ceased a while ago, but it did not matter. He wanted out of the mine at any cost. His legs pumped against the earth and the metal tile, and a second later, he burst out into the air, dragging the alien behind him. Collapsing onto the grass, Aaron dry-heaved, before rolling onto his back, staring straight into the air. He let out a quiet chuckle. He made it.
Aaron's view of the sky was quickly intercepted by the gaze of the grunt he had saved, looking down at him with a confused expression. Aaron stared blankly at the being standing over him. He had no idea what had compelled him to save his enemy's life, but he did not care. It was over and done with.
Dead tired, Aaron extended a shaky hand, and flipped the alien a thumbs up. It recoiled at the gesture for a second, before inspecting it with confusion. Nervously, it thrust its arm forward, and returned the gesture.
Aaron smiled, before shutting his eyes to catch his breath. He could hear the Alien walking away slowly. Soon enough, the slave drivers would begin kicking people upright, and it would be back down to the mine to re-excavate the collapsed sections, and to pull bodies from the wreckage. Aaron decided to savor what time he had to simply lie there. It was the first quiet moment he had had in a long time.
CHRISTINE WEATHERS - WASHINGTON DC
"President Weathers, I have an emergency call for you from Mr. Cross," said Adrian, Christine's personal aide, as he whispered in her ear. Christine glanced up at him - every president learned at some point in their career the skill of reading off of someone's face how important their statements were. At the moment, Adrian's was very important.
"Excuse me ladies, gentlemen," Christine said, pushing her seat away from the table. She was actually particularly excited to be leaving the meeting early. Somehow despite the state of total war that she and the entire world had found itself in, she had nonetheless been dragged into a meeting solely focused on the tariffs of pork imports. The surgical and highly significant shift of five to six percent required the guiding hand of the highest levels of government, it seemed, and Christine was obligated to attend. However, as she tuned out the meeting, she thought about the fight in the Pacific. Christine was not blind to the ongoing status of naval engagements with the enemy; she knew the American Pacific Third fleet was on its last legs.
The Fleet had been trying to engage the enemy for the past few weeks, though they had fallen into somewhat of a routine pattern. They would ambush the enemy from maximum effective distance, managing to disable or damage perhaps two enemy ships at most. The enemy would suddenly make offensive maneuvers against the Fleet, becoming seemingly impervious to damage as it did so, and they would be forced to scramble as quickly as possible, taking fire as they made their retreat. Luckily, it seemed the enemy ships were - for all of their size, armor, and armament - slower than hers, and so they could not chase the Third Fleet down to finish them once and for all.
She had been asked several times by Admiral Harper to withdraw the Third Fleet for repairs and resupply, though she had not indulged him at any point thus far. It was not something she took great pride in, but as long as the Fleet was seaworthy, she needed it in the Pacific, distracting the enemy. The second they stopped drawing the eyes of the Brotherhood of Makuta would be the second the Brotherhood began making landfall in California, and that was not a possibility she was ready to face.
Additionally, with some extremely skilled and timely press releases by Mrs. Mitchell, Secretary of the Press, Christine had managed to turn around the news of these defeats. Instead of demoralizing the country, as she was worried it might, she had found rather that recruitment numbers had gone up in the past month. It seemed that this enemy had awoken something in the American people that no foreign power could - a genuine call to arms.
This fact kept Christine generally optimistic - the situation in the Pacific was deteriorating in a manner that was not in her favor, but it was by no means a lost cause. In fact, the information passed on by Admiral Harper in the wake of each defeat had proven indispensable in evaluating and estimating the enemy's technological and tactical proficiency.
For example, Christine had discovered that the enemy had, for all of their naval prowess, a severely-underdeveloped air force. They had some fighter aircraft to speak of, but they were lightly armored, and from what information could be garnered, failed to properly enclose their pilot within a canopy. Coupled with a single forward-fixed flak cannon of some sort, it seemed that the enemy seemed to only consider fighter craft to have any value in an air-to-ground capacity, while air-to-air was a secondary (or even tertiary) consideration to them. When it came to air-to-air combat, the average F-18 outclassed an enemy fighter by a mile. Even when accounting for enemy numbers, which were admittedly much higher, they lacked any sort of missile defense, and were both slower and less maneuverable than the F-18, which made them easy to shoot down. With all this in mind, the American military was prepared to pay for an enormous shipment of F-18, surface and air-to-air missiles, etc.
Seizing the opportunity, Christine exited the room and followed Adrian as he led her to a separate meeting room. She could see Bart Cross waiting outside, looking nervous. She didn't like the feeling it gave her - Cross had always been a particularly high-strung and frazzled individual, especially for the past month, but this was above the normal level of stress she expected. Something abnormally bad must have happened.
"What is it," Christine asked, straight to the point, as Adrian opened the door for the two. Rushing inside after her, Cross spoke quickly and breathlessly.
"The U.S. and China have had a friendly fire incident in the Southwest Pacific," said Cross. Christine sighed.
"Alright. How'd it happen?"
Cross pulled up a map, labeled with various markings.
"Here's a map of the West Pacific, you can see here the U.S.S. Chancellorville, pulling out of its homeport of Yokosuka, Japan, along with Carrier Strike Group Five. According to Captain Zane, they were trying to cut across the border of Chinese waters to reinforce the Third Fleet…"
Cross traced their trajectory with his finger.
"When they got pinged by Chinese sonar here. Now, at this time, they had not crossed the border yet, but the Chinese have been bugging us for the past week about us crossing the border - we're investigating that claim currently, it doesn't appear that we're violating their territorial waters anywhere. Regardless, as soon as they did, a small strike group - three destroyers, from the looks of it - from the Brotherhood of Makuta showed up here and opened fire. We responded with strategic withdrawal, as is the standing procedure, and opened fire on everything we could see on the radar."
Christine nodded along. She was beginning to suspect where things had gone wrong.
"However, at the same time, the Chinese pulled out a group of destroyers from this port here, to escort Strike Group Five further out into sea. The Chancellorville failed to get a positive ID on one of the Chinese ships - it was still over the horizon, so there was no visual confirmation - and it was lumped in with the enemy fleet."
Christine hung her head. This was not something she needed at the moment.
"The Chancellorville opened fire with missile batteries, landing a number of consecutive successful hits on-target. The Brotherhood appeared to maneuver out of range at this point, while the Chinese responded with counter-fire."
Cross's tone lowered as the situation worsened.
"Both the Chinese and Strike Group Five pulled out immediately, but both of us took some bad hits. Very bad. The Chinese were asking for reparations, and are blaming us internationally." Cross said, bringing his briefing to a close.
Christine gritted her teeth.
"Alright. Whoever handled the missile targeting on the Chancellorville, I want them scrubbing toilets in Antarctica by the end of the week. I swear to Christ, I'm not going to have this Navy run by hotheads. I can't afford it," said Christine angrily. She couldn't believe one of her men had gone so wildly out of line - it was absolutely insane.
"And for the Chinese?"
"Are they still asking for reparations?"
"No, they've…they've gone radio silent."
Christine sighed, and thought deeply.
"What do you make of it?" she asked.
"Well… I see it going fifty-fifty. The Chinese don't pose a credible threat to us at the moment because the Brotherhood of Makuta is blocking up all the naval traffic in the Pacific, but that isn't to say that they won't do something brash. Conversely, they may be bluffing, and are actually willing to open up negotiations soon."
"Alright. Adrian, the second I get a call from the Chinese ambassador, put it through; I don't care what I'm doing at the time."
Adrian nodded from the corner of the room.
"In the meantime, keep reaching out to them. I want us ahead of this - I'm not going to let Sino-American relations breakdown over an accident, and certainly not at a time like this."
Cross nodded in agreement. Christine furrowed her brow in thought. This was a sticky situation, and one that she did not like the implications of. China and America had never gotten along particularly well; an incident of this caliber could ruin their relationship permanently, and if that happened, she did not trust the Chinese to be graceful about it.
ICARAX - ABOARD THE INDOMITABLE
"I am sending you to negotiate with the Primitives of the region Vamprah tells me is called China," said Icarax. Gorast stared blankly at Icarax in response.
This interaction had not come out of the blue - it had been building up for some time. Early in the morning, Icarax tirelessly danced between a series of columns, striking each of them with his longsword. He was unbelievably graceful in his movement, with a lithe and acrobatic quality that came from centuries of practice - but he was also fast, faster than any being of his size and proportion should be. As his sword glanced against padding on each column, they would swing around, sending pillars towards his body in unpredictable ways. Each one he was able to dodge, save for the ones he intentionally allowed to slip through. Those would be saved to provide a change in momentum to reposition him, or as a method of entrapping the imaginary foe. There was not a single mistake in his procedure, and he knew it well.
As he finished his routine, he slumped back away from the practice pillars, and dropped his weapons to the ground with a loud clatter. He had expended his physical energy, which meant it was time to use his mental energy. Try as he might, he could never scheme and fight at the same time. It was a talent that he simply did not have - and not for lack of trying. However, he knew from experience that the two interfered with each other. The plots hatched in the heat of even a training spar would be half-baked, and leave him vulnerable to his partner's blows. Thus, he bitterly separated the two into distinct timeslots in his day.
Catching the breath he did not need to take, he picked up his sword and shield from the floor and hung them on their rack. They were some of the most finely-crafted items in the universe, and he suspected that they had no equal throughout the entire Brotherhood.
Turning, he pressed a button on the wall, which opened the shutters to the training room, letting in the light from outside. He watched the sky, which had finally grown clear after weeks of rain. With the room illuminated, he pulled a series of tablets given to him by Vamprah from a table nearby. They were the only thing keeping him apprised of the war effort, and so he studied them with great diligence.
In particular, he paid attention to the updates on a specific plot that Vamprah had proposed to him recently, which he had signed off on. It outlined a plan to damage international relationships between two superpowers in this universe, China and America. Apparently the two had a rocky relationship, and the former of the two was fiercely protective of its territory. Vamprah's scheme had involved the hijacking of an American ship, and repeatedly probing the Chinese border. Inevitably, the Chinese would react with a show of force, and when they did, the Brotherhood would be quick to capitalize on it.
As he read the tablet, Icarax felt a smile creep onto his face. Apparently that show of force had happened - and it had gone better than he could have ever anticipated. The Americans seemed to have accidentally sunk a Chinese ship. There was no way of knowing how many deaths were involved, but Icarax knew the sorts of tempers that flew in matters of statecraft. This much blood in the water would call for reprisal - and this would open a great opportunity.
The Chinese had been taught about the dangers of their current allies - what he needed now was to show them that there were other options available. He needed someone to show them that the Brotherhood was as much of a threat as it was - someone who embodied the power and danger of the Brotherhood. Someone who could promise them the revenge they would seek, and more. It was not a task he trusted to anyone less than a Makuta.
Icarax's mind wandered over his lieutenants of choice. Antroz was still untrustworthy due to recent events. Chirox was…unlikely to take such a task seriously, and even so, both he and Antroz were busy in the South Pacific. Krika was available, but Icarax could not spare him - it was too risky to leave the burgeoning city, as vulnerable as it was, unprotected. Vamprah was a decent option, though he was not a particularly receptive diplomat, and every second his eyes were turned away from the war effort and towards negotiation was time spent not learning about the enemy. Bitil could not be trusted to handle the negotiations responsibly - Icarax could already see Bitil pulling some sort of maneuver on the Primitives as a display of competence, and he did not need a friendship with the Chinese threatened so early…
Icarax sighed. The answer was unfortunately obvious. There was only one who could be trusted to handle a task of this seriousness, and it was the person he trusted the least for it. Gorast was close by - able to strike while the protoiron was hot - and competent enough for the task. Rubbing his temples, Icarax grimaced. This was not a conversation he was looking forward to having.
"I'm sorry, sir?" asked Gorast, prompting Icarax to repeat himself. He did not like repeating himself.
"You're going to negotiate an alliance with the Primitives of China, and you will do whatever it takes to get them on our side."
Icarax could see Gorast's temper flare.
"Sir, there's no reason for us to be negotiating with those…vermin," she spat.
"Unfortunately, sister, there are many reasons. Vamprah has recently overseen a secret operation to sour the Chinese faith in their alliance with one of the other major powers in this universe, called America. I will refrain from going into the details, but understand me when I say that the Chinese are looking to spill some blood right now."
"Then let them, sir, why should we -"
"Because we are the only thing standing between them and the Americans at the moment. They are too afraid of us - rightfully so - to act without inhibition."
Gorast stayed silent.
"Do you know how many Primitives there are in China, sister?" Icarax said, after a pause.
"N-no."
"Over one billion. Have you ever heard that word before? Billion?"
Icarax could see Gorast's eyes narrow. He continued.
"There are about a hundred Primitives for each member of this Brotherhood in the land of China alone."
"I assure you, sir, that even a thousand Primitives for each member do not pose a credible threat -"
"Gorast, you must not think always in terms of violence. You are more than a hammer, and this problem is not a nail. One billion beings, regardless of whether they pose a threat to us, are a valuable tool for us to wield. The entire western flank of this war could be gone in the snap of my fingers if the Chinese are at our beck and call. Do you understand that?"
Gorast remained silent. Icarax could tell she was keeping her thoughts to herself, though he did not much care what she had to say as long as she understood his point.
"I don't expect you to enjoy it. In fact, I expect you will not. But I want the Chinese to understand that we will not interfere with their operations. Deliver them a notice of non-aggression, and do whatever it takes for them to sign it. We will not fire upon or make maneuvers against their political territory as long as they are prepared to form an offensive against the Americans."
"It is distasteful, sir, to grant clemency to the Primitives. Even the ones helping us to accomplish our goals."
Icarax thought for a moment. He agreed - he had no love for the Primitives. But he was too pragmatic to let a feverish zealotry keep him in the dark.
"Gorast, I have long since hoped that you would come to understand this yourself, but you seem to lack the depth that I require of my lieutenants, and so I will have to explain it to you. The Brotherhood will rule every universe. I shall command every reality -" Icarax began, though Gorast cut him off.
"Teridax."
Icarax cocked a brow.
"Teridax will command every reality," said Gorast, with a spark of impertinence.
"Indeed," Icarax said, placating her. In truth, he had seen neither hide nor hair of Teridax since the Makuta had first stepped through the Olmak portal years ago. If the Brotherhood had a leader, it was him, and he knew it as a fact. "Teridax shall command every reality, and he does so without discrimination. That the beings of this world are of flesh and blood makes no difference to him, as long as they bend the knee to his will. The Chinese are at the cusp of doing so - do not deny them. Help them to see the way."
Gorast stared defiantly into Icarax's eyes, though he knew from many such similar interactions that she would say nothing. After a moment, she bowed her head.
"Yes, sir."
Not waiting for him to dismiss her, she turned, fluttering her insectoid wings, and barged out of the room. Icarax leaned back in his throne, contemplating. He wondered if perhaps the time away from Teridax was doing Gorast well - that she might become more reasonable when divorced from his influence. Perhaps even a new loyalty could take that place - it would be convenient to have such a loyal guard dog as her. Icarax's clawed fingers stroked his chin as his mind delved into schemes and plots once more.