Vengeance

by Brian Falkner

  “Billionths?”

  “Yeah. Blink and you’ll miss it. A billion times. Here’s the second problem. A gram of positronium would produce an incredibly powerful bomb, but in the entire history of the earth we’ve never managed to create more than a millionth of that. And it disappeared almost as soon as it existed.”

  “So where did the Pukes get all their positronium?” Price asked.

  “I don’t know,” Barnard said.

  “From the engines on their transporters,” Brogan said.

  “There were thousands of spaceships!” Chisnall said.

  Brogan shook her head. “Most of the transporters jettisoned their drives into space as a safety precaution before beginning their entry into Earth’s atmosphere. Remember that transporter that crashed? Imagine if that one had had its drive on board.”

  “Boom,” Wall said.

  “That’s why when we inspected the transporters we found no sign of a power source,” Barnard said.

  “Yes. Mostly. Of the thousands of transporters, a very small number risked atmospheric entry with their drives on board. Any one of those drives has enough positronium to create a dozen bombs, each bomb a thousand times more powerful than any nuclear weapon.”

  “Now you see the problem,” Chisnall said. “The Pukes are backed into a corner. As soon as they feel there is a real possibility of defeat, they’ll decide there’s no other alternative but to blow us humans off the planet. First step: take out Washington.”

  “So how does Azoh help us stop this?” Price asked.

  “They revere Azoh above everything,” Chisnall said. “To them, she’s like Mother Teresa, Gandhi and Jesus Christ all rolled into one.”

  “I still don’t see how that helps,” Price said.

  “If someone kidnapped Jesus, wouldn’t you do your best to get him back?” Brogan asked.

  “Exactly,” Chisnall said. “If we could spirit Azoh away somewhere, we’d have the biggest bargaining chip of the war. Plus, if the Pukes don’t know where she is, they’re not going to start blowing up cities in case they kill her.”

  “Nobody want to nuke Jesus,” Monster said.

  “We may be able to force the Pukes to negotiate some kind of truce with ACOG,” Chisnall said.

  There was a silence as they all thought through the implications of that. Price looked around at the team, noting the furrowed brows. The very idea of kidnapping the spiritual leader of their enemy was outrageous.

  “We’d have to get past all her guards and somehow get her out of the country,” she said.

  “You’re right; it’s crazy,” Chisnall said.

  “You’d have to be crazy to even think of attempting it,” Barnard said.

  “Monster crazy always,” Monster said with a grin.

  “I’m with the big guy,” Wall said.

  “Chisnall, you put me in charge,” Price said. “So it’s my decision. And I think it’s suicide.”

  “You know what your problem is, Price?” Brogan asked.

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Price said.

  “You’re still hoping to come out of this alive,” Brogan said.

  “And you’re not?”

  “I honestly don’t care,” Brogan said. “And that means I can function as a soldier. You’ll never achieve anything unless you’re prepared to put your life on the line.”

  “Like The Tsar just did,” Barnard said.

  “At least The Tsar only had his own life to worry about,” Price said.

  “Exactly,” Brogan said. “Stop worrying about us and start thinking about your mission objective.”

  “She’s right,” Barnard said.

  “This plan may be crazy, but at least we die in style,” Brogan said.

  “I hate to say it, but I’m starting to like this chick,” Wall said.

  Price put her head down, staring at the floor, thinking. If she had learned one thing on this mission, it was that being too cautious was as dangerous as being too reckless.

  “What about security?” she asked.

  “Very light,” Chisnall said. “Bzadians don’t have crime. Humans might have a history of murdering their leaders, but the idea wouldn’t even occur to a Bzadian.” He stopped and corrected himself. “Usually.”

  “Okay, we go back to the original plan. Gain access to Azoh’s private quarters,” Price said. “Knock out her guards with some puke spray, tie her up, sling her over our collective shoulder, and whistle a jaunty little melody as we saunter on home.”

  “And live happily ever after,” Wall said.

  “It just might work,” Chisnall said.

  “If we can get her to the tunnels, we might have a chance,” Price said. “There’ll be panic and confusion once the bombing raid starts. How’s that arm coming?”

  “Almost there,” Brogan said.

  The Nzgali checked weapons and equipment as they finalised preparations for their search and assault of the mall.

  Their equipment was impressive and unique to their unit. Designed specifically for the kind of situation they were now in.

  Spiderbots, modelled on a self-camouflaging Bzadian spider, were low, flat, silent autonomous robots. Gliding easily on eight legs with silent rubber feet they changed colour to match the surface they were walking on, making them almost invisible. They were equipped with high-resolution cameras and packed a powerful stun grenade.

  Flybots were the size of a large insect, with a top speed faster than most birds, allowing a rapid and covert surveillance of a wide area. Their bodies were crystalline and their wings translucent. They were silent and almost invisible. The feed from their cameras was sent to a video tablet.

  There was a grunt from the prisoner as he was moved onto a low gurney in preparation for transportation to hospital. Still unconscious, despite the best efforts of the medic.

  The medic was clearly not used to treating humans, and was reading notes from a computer screen, comparing images to the results he was getting on his equipment.

  Goezlin was hovering over him, but the medic ignored him, focusing on his job. Either he did not know who Goezlin was, Nokz’z thought, or he genuinely didn’t care.

  “We are ready, sir,” Jazki said. “What are your orders?”

  “Any sign of movement at any of the mall entrances?” Nokz’z asked.

  “Nothing yet, sir,” Jazki said. “Every entrance has been sealed. They are in here somewhere.”

  “Search floor by floor. Every corridor, every cupboard. Start on this floor. Find them.”

  In the days when humans had owned and run this shopping mall, Nokz’z reflected, there would have been video cameras covering every floor, every entrance. But those cameras were no longer used. Why would you need security cameras in a society that was free from crime?

  “So how do we infiltrate Azoh’s quarters?” Price asked. “And why do we need Brogan for it?”

  “I need a Vaza,” Chisnall said.

  “What are you talking about?” Barnard asked.

  “My cover here is that of a chef,” Chisnall said.

  “Is good,” Monster said. “I could go a burger and fries right now.”

  “But a chef would never get through the layers of security,” Chisnall said. “I need to impersonate a high-ranking officer. To do that, I need a Vaza.”

  “I could have been your Vaza,” Price said. “Or Barnard. Or Monster.”

  Chisnall laughed. “Not Monster. No offence, big guy.”

  “Are Vazas always female?” Monster asked.

  “Mostly,” Chisnall said. “For male officers.”

  “And male for female officers?” Price asked.

  Chisnall nodded.

  “Why is that?” Price asked.

  “Why do you think?” Wall said.

  “It can be a long, cold, hard winter when you’re stuck on the frontlines,” Chisnall said. “A Vaza is …”

  “More than just a bodyguard,” Brogan said.

  “But why Brogan?” Price as
ked.

  “A Vaza must be able to speak the high language,” Chisnall said.

  “Do you speak it?” Price asked.

  “I do now,” Chisnall said.

  Brogan disengaged the machine from Chisnall’s arm. “How does that feel? Try it.”

  Chisnall lifted his arm and stretched it out. It felt odd, as if not quite part of him. The pain was gone but there was a shadow, like a memory of pain, a numb, bruised feeling. He bent the arm back and forth a few times, testing it.

  “How strong is it?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t go lifting weights,” Brogan said. “The bone is still knitting, but the rest of the process is natural. It’ll take a few days to heal completely, but it’ll be strong enough for today.”

  “Okay, we are Oscar Mike,” Price said.

  Nokz’z watched on video screens set up next to the battered fire truck. Multiple feeds from multiple cameras showed corridors, mezzanines, the interiors of shops. Some vision was from ground level, those would be from the spiderbots; others from a high vantage point, the flybots, the image quivering with each flutter of their tiny wings.

  Goezlin was not watching. His attention was on the one Angel they had captured and on the medic who was examining him. He was clearly considering something.

  The mall was sealed off. The Angels had no chance of escape.

  Goezlin was now talking to the medic.

  “What do you mean conscious?”

  For an answer the medic held up a medical scanner and pointed to the screen. “His eye reactions and heart rate indicate that he is awake. I think he is only pretending to be unconscious.”

  The Tsar coughed as Goezlin’s boot caught him violently, just under his ribs. His eyes did not open.

  “You are sure?” Goezlin asked.

  “Certain,” the medic answered.

  “Could he have driven the truck?” Goezlin asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” the medic replied.

  “What’s going on?” Nokz’z asked.

  Goezlin turned and looked him straight in the eye. “You incompetent fool!” he said. “The Angels are still in the Congress building.”

  “Kick me again and I’ll break your neck,” The Tsar said.

  INNER SANCTUM

  [1000 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

  [BZADIAN CONGRESS, CANBERRA]

  The first security point was an elevator. It was the only way in or out of the bunkers. A classic defensive position, Chisnall thought, just a single point of entry. The bunker system could not be overwhelmed by a large force. The elevator was only big enough for six or eight people.

  To gain access to the elevator required the insertion of valid ID tubes. Chisnall and Brogan had valid ID tubes. ACOG had seen to that. They had changed into uniforms from a clothing locker, unlocked, as was the Bzadian way.

  Price and the others were at the main entrance, preparing to defend the building.

  The elevator doors opened smoothly and Chisnall and Brogan stepped inside.

  “You’re wondering about me, aren’t you?” Brogan said, almost as soon as the doors closed.

  “Did they teach you to read minds at Uluru too?” Chisnall asked.

  They began to descend. There were no indicators to say how deep they were, or how fast they were going.

  “Nope,” Brogan said. “But if I were you, that’s what I’d be doing. Especially here. Especially now.”

  It was a long trip down. Something about the descent made his arm ache.

  “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you,” Chisnall said. “But yes, I am wondering if you’re going to let us get within spitting distance of our objective, and then do your best to sabotage the mission.”

  “I’m not,” Brogan said.

  “It’s happened before,” Chisnall said.

  “Not this time,” Brogan said. “I’ve made a choice. I’m sticking with it.”

  “And I should believe a liar?” Chisnall said. “I still don’t understand why you agreed to come on this mission.”

  There was silence. The lift whirred. Lights on the ceiling panels flickered slightly.

  “I wanted to see you,” Brogan said.

  “I don’t know why,” Chisnall said. “Some things can be undone. And some things can be forgiven. But some things can’t.”

  “I didn’t come to apologise,” Brogan said. “I’m not looking for forgiveness. Perhaps to explain.”

  “Then explain,” Chisnall said.

  Brogan turned and stared directly at him. “I did what I did because that’s who I was. That’s how they made me,” she said. “But that’s not who I am now.”

  Chisnall returned her stare but said nothing.

  “You know what really got to me, as I was sitting alone all day in a cinderblock cell?” Brogan asked. “It wasn’t patriotism or a feeling that I had betrayed my race. Nothing like that. Yes I’m human. But I was brought up a Bzadian. That thinking went round in circles till it all became a blur. What really got to me was the fact that I had hurt people who cared about me.”

  “Is that so?” Chisnall said, a little more harshly than he intended.

  “Yeah,” she said. “In the end, that’s all that matters.”

  The elevator stopped moving before Chisnall could think of a response.

  After a brief moment, long enough for him to wonder if something had gone wrong and they would be sent back to the surface, the doors slid open.

  They emerged into a circular room, bare of furniture or decorations. Behind twin glass doors on the opposite wall, a pair of burly and heavily armed security guards sat, both wearing the sand-coloured robes of the Azaykin, Azoh’s personal guard.

  “Whatever happens,” Brogan murmured on the com, “don’t get in a fight with one of the Azaykin.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Chisnall said.

  “I’m serious,” Brogan said. “You won’t win. They are bred and trained for one purpose: to protect Azoh. They are even more highly trained and dedicated than the Vaza corps. If it comes down to it, just shoot them in the face and try to keep out of their way while they’re dying.”

  “Cheerful,” Chisnall said.

  “Just telling it like it is,” Brogan said.

  “I hope it won’t come to that,” Chisnall said, his fingers grazing the grenade concealed within his jacket.

  “We can’t defend the whole building,” Price said, studying a layout map on her wrist computer. “But we have to defend the main entrance.”

  The elevators to Azoh’s bunkers were in a hallway behind the art gallery, itself at the rear of the main entrance. A stairway from the same hallway led down to a lower storage level. The entrance to the tunnel was there somewhere.

  Chisnall and Brogan were deep in the bowels of the building, trying to charm their way into Azoh’s private bunker. The Tsar’s ruse would only buy them so much time, and when the Bzadians figured it out, they would know there was only one place the Angels could be.

  “We try to slow them down at the main entrance,” she said, “lure them into the art gallery.”

  “And then?” Wall asked.

  “Leave that part up to me,” Price said. “The rest of you retreat into the hallway and hold it at all costs.”

  “You are The Tsar,” Goezlin said. He was standing directly behind The Tsar, who was chained to a chair, facing a blank concrete wall in the middle of which was a large flat-screen display. A plasma drip on a metal stand was connected to a tube at his elbow.

  Concern about The Tsar’s well-being seemed to have vanished when they discovered that he was feigning unconsciousness. Not that it had been hard to feign. The effort of the hair-raising drive to the mall had been draining and the crash inside the mall had not been intentional.

  He had blacked out as the truck had hit the ramp and only came to when he crashed into a pillar by the mall entry.

  Voices outside the truck had given him just enough warning, just enough time to drag himself out of the driver’s seat and into t
he back before the truck was invaded.

  He had been taken by an ambulance to this building, wherever it was, and wheeled into this room.

  They had treated him well enough, if you didn’t count the chain that attached him to the heavy metal chair. But he had a feeling that was about to change.

  “I am not asking you, I am telling you,” Goezlin said, right behind his ear. “You are The Tsar.”

  “Actually you got that wrong,” The Tsar said, feeling quite light-headed. “I am the king.”

  “Tsar means king, yes?” Goezlin asked.

  Goezlin’s voice was high and constricted, as if he had a problem with his throat. It added to his air of menace. His position behind The Tsar’s chair was no accident, The Tsar thought. It was unnerving. He could hear the voice of the PGZ commandant but could not see him. The only person The Tsar could see was a guard who stood to attention to the left of the screen. He focused on the guard as if it was she who was talking, instead of his soon-to-be torturer.

  “I’m not that kind of king. I’m the king of rock’n’roll,” The Tsar said. He winked at the guard, who did not respond.

  “You are wasting time, Mr Nikolaevna,” Goezlin said.

  “Elvis,” The Tsar said. “I won’t answer to anything else.”

  “I think you are deliberately wasting my time,” Goezlin said. “And you will regret it.”

  “I regret it already,” The Tsar said.

  “Your friends are somewhere in the Congress,” Goezlin said. “We will find them. But you could save us a lot of time if you told us where they are and what they are planning to do.”

  “They’re having a dance party,” The Tsar said. “And I’m missing out. You should see me twerking.”

  “Perhaps you should listen, while I talk,” Goezlin said.

  “Why talk when you can sing?” The Tsar asked. “We could sing together. A duet. I am the king of rock’n’roll. Baby.”

  “We know all about you, Dimitri, and the other Angels,” Goezlin said. “We have identified all of you from photos and tracked down your identities, through … sources.”