Chapter 22 - Duty

UZOK - THE PACIFIC

Uzok was miserable. Half of his body felt stiff, and every single spot that bore a bandage itched incessantly. Supposedly that was a side effect of the Amana salve, though he wondered if he wouldn't prefer to simply tough out his injuries if it meant relief from the urge to scratch himself.

In the hallway, he could hear the sound of the doctor attempting to help Akres bend his arm. He was still working on getting full mobility back, as a combination of injuries and a coma had left his joints weakened. Akres had only woken up a few days prior, and his head was still wrapped in a series of bandages. Uzok tried to listen in on his conversation with the doctor, as there was little to do in the hospital other than eavesdrop on other patients' conversations. On occasion, the 65th warbirds Honor Guard would stop by to check on his recovery, though for the most part they were enjoying some rest and relaxation while Uzok recovered.

There was a sudden snapping sound that drew Uzok's attention - that of feet rapidly clacking together. Someone was standing at attention.

"At ease," came a familiar voice. The curtain slid aside, and several large figures filled the gap.

Marshall Koltari, clad in his usual purple and gold regalia, had come to visit. Behind him stood Akres.

"Uzok!" cried Marshall Koltari, his voice booming. "Good to see you, Uzok, how's the eye?"

Uzok glowered - the eye was permanently damaged, and he would never see out of it again. Instead of replying, he simply moved aside the bandage covering it, and let the sight of it speak for itself.

"Mm. Well…at least you're out of bed, right? Out and about."

"Aye, out and about," replied Uzok, craning his neck.

"Good to hear. You don't know how miserable it's been not having the honor guard at my disposal. You'll never make marshal lying in bed nursing your health, you know."

Uzok sneered.

"There a meaning to the visit, sir?" he asked.

"Of course," said Koltari, sitting on the side of Uzok's bed. He suddenly turned to Akres.

"Akres, there's a bottle of that Primitive's stuff in my cabin; could you send my secretary to get it? It's good, I've had a sip myself - better than the stuff on Zakaz, really."

Akres nodded, though Uzok could sense that he neither appreciated being sent on an errand nor did he want to miss out on the conversation. Nonetheless, he followed orders like a good soldier, and limped off to find Koltari's secretary.

Alone together, Koltari breathed deeply.

"At ease, brother, you seem edgy - damned edgy."

Uzok breathed a sigh of relief and let his shoulders drop.

"What do you know about naval combat?" said Koltari, after a pause. Uzok, owing to his career as a sailor, was pleasantly surprised to be asked a question he knew the answer to.

"Enough. Why do you ask? You're not reassigning me to the Navy, I hope."

"Perish the thought, brother. I ask because I imagine you're an intelligent Skakdi, and you must know that ships need water."

Uzok nodded, waiting for Koltari to make his point.

"Well, apparently Vamprah's been doing some digging into the geography of this universe… and word is that the enemy has a large landmass to the East, so large that it would take many weeks to sail around it. Normally we'd have the slaves dig a canal through it, but they're busy at the moment - not that it matters, because the Primitives seem to have done the work for us already."

Koltari pulled out a holopad, revealing a map of an area that Uzok did not recognize.

"You want the honor guard to capture the canal for you, is that it?" Uzok asked, anticipating Koltari's instructions.

Instead, Koltari looked a bit taken aback.

"Yes and no," he said. "Normally I'd ask you to take it and hold it, and I'd give you an entire chain to back you up, but apparently Icarax is planning something special. He just needs it long enough to get a single ship through - and so he's just sending a crack team of my choosing."

He pinched his fingers on the holopad, moving the perspective to a different location to the south.

"In a week's time, the fleet will be landing on the shore here. You and your team are going to be joining them. Once the landing site is secure, break off, get to the canal with all haste - shouldn't be difficult, you'll be traveling light. Once you're there, you do what you do best. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Uzok could not deny that a special mission, far from the bulk of the fighting, meant two things. Firstly, very few enemies; with most engaged in the battle, there would be few between him and his target. And secondly, a better chance of being noticed by Icarax - and promoted.

"Aye, sir," Uzok replied.

"Good lad!" Koltari said, clapping Uzok on the back with a chuckle. Standing upright, Koltari began to move towards the exit.

"There was something else, sir," said Uzok, stopping him in his tracks. He had a question at the forefront of his mind - and it had nothing to do with the mission.

"What is it?" Koltari asked.

"There's a Skakdi in my guard, goes by the name of Sokul. He's lying about his past, and I want to know who he is and why he's hiding it."

"Lots of members of the Brotherhood hide who they used to be, Uzok. We do a lot of killing and conquering. That means we attract killers and conquerors to our ranks."

"Aye, but this one is different. There's something about him."

Koltari thought for a moment, before finally coming to a conclusion.

"Well, normally I'd decline such a request, but…I do owe you from Metru Nui. Next time we meet, I'll have something for you."

Uzok nodded in thanks, but was interrupted by Akres returning to the room, carrying a bottle and some glasses.

"Ah, Akres! We were just discussing your next mission," Koltari said, pouring drinks for the three. "How are you feeling, brother?"

"I've been better," Akres replied gruffly.

"I'm sure," said Koltari jovially. "And how would you like to get revenge on the Primitive stone apes that blew up your face?"

Koltari raised his glass for a cheer, which was eagerly returned by the two Skakdi.

"I'll drink to that," said Akres, excitedly. Uzok could not help but feel the same.

CHRISTINE WEATHERS - WASHINGTON, D.C.

Christine was embroiled in a meeting, as she had often been for the past month-and-then-some. This one, however, was of critical importance, as she sat across the table from the heads of the Ecuadorian, Peruvian, Colombian, and Chilean governments, and a number of generals from each assembled nation. On her side of the table were representatives from the majority of Five Eyes - Canada, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and France. Auspiciously missing was Australia, whose government was in shambles, leaving them unable to attend. Each understood gravely the threat that the Brotherhood of Makuta posed - and each had come to realize that the Brotherhood was approaching their shores, and would arrive within a week.

"Thank you for meeting with me under such short notice," said Christine, breaking the ice. "I'll keep this brief - you are all aware that the alien threat known as the Brotherhood of Makuta is sending ships to land on your shores, I'm proposing America's aid as part of a joint defense force."

The assembled council nodded. Christine suspected it was the exact sort of news they were hoping to hear.

"What of the other countries along the western border?" asked Moreno, president of Ecuador.

"I've made some provisional arrangements. Most that America is on good terms with were invited to this meeting. Some are intent on weathering the storm independently, others have made special arrangements."

"I hope so - I do not want to have to defend my country from both sea and land," replied Martín Vizcarra of Peru. The man was a political concern for Christine, who knew that his public approval had dropped in recent years - though as long as he hung on by a thread, she had no choice but to cooperate with him. If she did not keep him closely coordinated with this defense, the enemy would likely blow through the thinnest area of the Andes mountains, and into the eastern half of the continent - which would spell both a tactical and humanitarian disaster.

"We'll work together to keep our borders secure - in the meantime, your main concerns will be naval attacks. The enemy has extremely advanced fleets, far beyond anything we've ever seen. You'll be lucky to stop a single ship from landing on your shores."

The room took a somber tone as Christine elaborated.

"The good news is, however, the enemy has a complete disregard for air superiority, from what we can tell, and while we don't know exactly of their capabilities by land, we've been analyzing survivor accounts from Australia. They're not invulnerable, and the shielding they apply to their ships does not appear to work on a small-scale personal level."

"Very well. So then, what is your plan?" said Piñera, of Chile.

Christine took a deep breath and began her explanation.

Christine steeled herself, and stepped through the door after Doctor Peltonac.

The hospital room was cold - as all hospital rooms always were. At the center of one wall was a bed, hooked up to a number of devices that she lacked the medical knowledge to identify. Her father lay, still asleep, in the bed. The man was strong, and built like an ox, but there was a deathly pallor that clung to his skin. She could tell simply by sight that something was wrong with him, and were he not already in the hospital, seeing him in this state would have prompted her to call an ambulance.

It had been a heart attack that had brought him here. According to her mother, he had been in the shower, about to head out for a campaign speech, when she heard him collapse. She had called Christine the second she arrived at the hospital.

Of course, both she and Christine knew the reason behind his sudden illness. No man at his age and health suffered such a catastrophic failure of health without a good reason. In the case of Christine's father, Richard, the cause was a dirty secret that he had successfully concealed for nearly a decade of public office.

Like many who found themselves with a sudden influx of wealth and power during the 80s, Richard had little experience with the "high life", but a great number of peers urging him to join in. He partook in all of the pleasures that luxury could bring, with little concern for himself, and only a minute amount for his public appearance. What had begun at a party many years prior had clung to him like a cancer throughout the rest of his life: an everlasting problem that went unspoken among the Weathers family.

Christine took a seat in one of the chairs beside the bed, while her mother raced to Richard's side, clutching his hand in hers.

"We're lucky to have caught the heart attack early," began Doctor Paltonec. "Any longer and there would have been permanent damage. As it stands, we're looking at issues with tachycardia, or arrhythmia - mood swings may become more frequent, and we can't rule out the possibility of this happening again. It's hard to say."

Her mother, Jolyne, swallowed nervously.

"Doctor…I don't know how to say this…"

The doctor raised a hand to steady her.

"It's alright, ma'am. I recognize the…sensitive nature of this situation, and as your family's physician, I've been discreet before. I don't see any reason to change our arrangement."

Jolyne's eyes lit up as the unspoken agreement was made between her and the doctor. Christine silently observed the situation. She remarked internally on the strangeness of bribing a doctor - one of the wealthiest jobs a person could have. Then again, she came from a family of wealthy politicians, so perhaps the point was moot. It concerned her little - her main focus was on Richard's health.

Hours passed as Chrsitine sat, still as a statue and completely silent, in the chair beside her father's bed. Jolyne joined her, though far more restlessly.

"Are you hungry?" she finally asked Christine, who shook her head.

"Well you've got to eat something," she said. Christine again shook her head.

There was a silent moment.

"There's a sandwich shop by the lobby. I'm gonna get myself something. We can split it. Okay, honey?"

Christine did not respond, and barely registered as her mother accepted her silence as a response, and left the room in search of the aforementioned sandwich shop.

Christine's eyes burrowed deep into her father's body as he slept. It was too late in his campaign - far too late - for this sort of issue. If any reporters found out about it - not even the nature of his addiction - but that he had suffered a heart attack so near to the election…

As her mind dwelled on the subject, Richard's eyelid twitched.

Christine shot out of her chair like a bullet. Her father was waking up.

KRIKA - OFF THE COAST OF MALAYSIA

Krika had been diligently guarding the construction site of the Brotherhood's new city, as he had been told to do. What he had expected was a dangerous assignment, fighting a war of attrition with limitless waves of Primitives who were hunting for the Brotherhood's base of operations.

In reality, the assignment was extremely boring. The Primitives of the region put up little fight whatsoever, and so he was left to mind his own business for the most part. In this case, the business was the rebuilding of the slave corps to operational levels after the calamity of the Great Journey. Untold quantities of cargo, personnel, and equipment had been lost, making the already-monumental chore of building a city into an even more complicated one.

It was nearing midday as Krika finished managing the Brotherhood's inventory. To Kabei he sent a number of heavier mining vehicles, along with equipment to build further emergency shelters. Meanwhile, to Bitil, he sent two support frigates and a refueling tanker that had just finished its repair time in the Target Main dock. To his cadre of Vortixx engineers, who had decamped from their mobile laboratories aboard his ships to the overcrowded streets of Target Main, he sent a steady supply of parts salvaged from the wreckage around the island, though some that could be better-used elsewhere he kept aside.

The problems compounded themselves, and it seemed to Krika that every solution he provided spawned a new issue. While he had managed to acquire a number of small-scale cement mills for Kabei - leftovers from earlier island-settling expeditions - the minerals meant for usage in the mills had become utterly waterlogged and useless. Thus, he had to both acquire raw minerals and either the machinery or elemental-Stone-aligned beings to process them into a usable form. While he had no doubt Kabei's excavations would uncover copious amounts of limestone and gypsum, they had not penetrated the earth deep enough to find industrial quantities yet, and even if they did, they would be entirely useless unless they could be ground up and combined into clinker.

Krika was not disheartened, however. Though the problems seemed unending and infinite, he tackled them as he did with most - one step at a time. He could bring the cement mills to Kabei. Meanwhile, he could retrieve large quantities of raw resources from sacked Primitive settlements on the surrounding islands, at least until such time as Kabei's excavations yielded results. By the time the raw resources would be collected, the foundry on Target Main would be upgraded through the application of recently discovered parts - and therefore able to produce for smaller, lower-priority tasks. This would permit him to construct refinery facilities, while not impeding the flow of hull replacement sections and reconstructed turret shells that the fleet so desperately needed. From there, Kabei could locally produce his own materials, eliminating a reliance on imported concrete.

Krika noted all of this down on a tablet and set it aside onto a large pile of others like it, each detailing his plans for every conceivable need of the Brotherhood. One explained the sourcing of rebar and protoiron reinforcements for the tunnels in Kabei's city, while another delved into the dietary requirements of the Brotherhood's civilian and military population, and which crops could best be grown in an underground environment. A third tablet covered a series of designs and proposals for underwater locks, so that ships could be escorted into a secret underground harbor connected to the city, and a fourth detailed the design of a fuel refinery system that Chirox was eager to discuss with Krika - over which the two would share a meeting in the near future.

As Krika chased ideas in his head, he was disturbed by a knock at his door.

"Enter," he said idly.

The door cracked open, and a messenger cracked his head through it.

"My lord, the Captain is requesting clarification on our orders."

"With regards to?"

"An enemy ship has been sighted and seems to be unaware of our presence, though it does not appear to be a military vessel. Gorast has previously advised we fire on all contacts, regardless of intent, though in that context the civilian ships were being escorted by armed guards -"

"Mm. I will come to the bridge. Make no attack until I have arrived."

"Aye, sir."

The messenger ducked out of the doorway, and Krika could hear him scurrying away through the halls. Sighing, he pushed away from his desk and stood upright. Almost instinctively, he stretched his back, though he stopped himself a moment later.

Why? he thought, puzzled. It was not as if there was any musculature to stretch. His back was merely an intricate construction of interlocking plates and pistons, rigorously sealed to keep his Antidermis within. When he stretched, there was no release of tension, simply the artificial extension and compression of a hermetically-sealed carapace. He had long since shed his organic form. So why did he feel the need to engage in such…pointless gestures? What compelled him to act as if he were one of the lower creatures that he commanded - one who suffered from the same aches and pains that they did? He was a higher life form, one who had purged such weakness long ago.

This question, although it weighed heavily on him, did not have time for consideration, as the Captain's questions were far more urgent. Exiting his chambers, Krika made his way towards the bridge.

Through the viewport, he could see the edge of a vessel on the horizon - a small ship, even by the Brotherhood's standards, that seemed to be overflowing with Primitives. Krika narrowed his eyes and watched as it tried to outpace the larger warship barreling down on it.

"Sir, the enemy craft is in range. Would you like us to open fire?" asked the crewmember at the gunnery station.

"Negative," replied Krika, eyeing the vessel. His gaze ponderously crept over every inch of the craft, taking in as many details as he could. He saw the silhouette of the hull, examined the wake of the craft, and tried to estimate the power of its engines. He wondered about the power source of the vessel, and where it came from, and how long it would last before the need to refuel presented itself. He glanced at the Primitives who clung to every inch of the craft, so much so that it seemed as if it would sink if a wave struck it. They looked so terrified.

Krika was no stranger to terror. It was a powerful tool in the hands of the Brotherhood - and he had learned the lesson well. So rarely did a terrified face ever cause him to stay his hand, and yet…

They looked so pathetic, huddled aboard their vessel, praying to their Great Spirit, attempting to outpace their demise. It dawned on Krika that he was watching their final moments - that any second could be their last.

Krika began to raise his hand to give the order to fire, but it froze in place. His mind went blank. He could feel his arm, prepared by his side, and although he willed the power into it to move it, it did not obey. It was as if he was a husk displaced from his body, watching the event unfold.

Nobody would know, said a voice in his head. You could let them go.

Krika expelled the thoughts the second they entered his consciousness. It was a silly notion. He was currently under orders to destroy enemy vessels within the area of the Brotherhood's new city - and that included this refugee ship.

So why couldn't he do it?

Nobody would know, said the voice again. He tried once more to will the thought out of existence, but this time, it stuck, lodged inside his brain.

It's true…nobody would know. The bridge crew are loyal to me. Gorast isn't here. Or Icarax. But it would be rebellion, an open act of defiance, brazenly against the will of the Seneschal of Teridax.

But he wouldn't know…

Krika's eyes widened as he began to realize the gravity of his situation. He was in a situation unclouded by the demands of Icarax or Gorast or any of the other Makuta. The order to fire was his and his alone, a test of his character when divorced from the influence of the Brotherhood as a whole. There would be no consequence for letting this group of Primitives escape, nor would there be any for ending their existence. It was all so perfectly laid out before him, yet completely obscured by a fog that his gaze could not penetrate.

Words rose from his throat, though he could not tell if they were truly his or not.

"Let them go."

A second later, the gunnery station replied with a confused but obedient "Aye, sir."

Krika felt his nonexistent pulse race. He could not believe what he had just said. He was a Makuta, a being of pure malice. He was order, he was tyranny, and he was death. But somehow he had let them live. Something within him failed to do what he was designed to do.

In an instant, he teleported back to his chambers, though the action barely registered upon him, so lost in thought was he.

I disobeyed an order. I let them live. I didn't do what Icarax wanted.

I let them live.

I let them live.

In a daze, Krika slumped into a chair, staring blankly into space, with the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

I let them live.