Vengeance (21 page)

“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 the 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.”

“Who’s Dimitri?” The Tsar asked.

“Dimitri Nikolaevna,” Goezlin said. “A regular member of Angel Team Four, along with Ryan Chisnall, Trianne Price, Retha Barnard, Hayden Wall and Janos Panyoczki.”

“Never heard of any of them,” The Tsar said.

“You might be surprised how much information we have compiled on you all,” Goezlin said.

“Your spies were uncovered a long time ago,” The Tsar said. “They’ve been feeding you false information for years.”

He waited for a response to that, but didn’t get one. There was no sound at all except for the slow tapping of Goezlin’s shoes, a light tread on a concrete floor. Was he pacing the room? Was he tapping his feet? The Tsar couldn’t tell without twisting his head around and he wasn’t going to give Goezlin that satisfaction.

The footsteps moved away, then returned. When Goezlin spoke again it was in a softer voice. If not more friendly, then at least conciliatory.

“It may surprise you to learn that I have a son, about your age,” Goezlin said. He sighed. “What I would feel if he ever found himself in your position, I cannot imagine. But of course that would never happen. We do not send our children out to fight. And do not think that will prevent me from doing my duty. My having a son will not save you if you do not tell me what I need to know.”

“What’s your son going to think when we kick your Bzadian asses off our planet?” The Tsar asked.

“I need to find out what your friends are up to, and to stop it,” Goezlin said, as if he had not heard The Tsar’s question. “Let us examine my options. There are drugs I could use, but they would take too long.”

“Say no to drugs,” The Tsar said.

“I could subject you to pain that you could not withstand,” Goezlin said. “But your history and ours shows that people will say anything to stop the pain and I would not trust the results.”

“Whip me, beat me, make me listen to rap music,” The Tsar said.

“Fortunately I have a better option,” Goezlin said.

“Oh God, not the rap music,” The Tsar said. “I was only joking. Anything but that! Peace out.”

“I think we should discuss your family,” Goezlin said.

Now The Tsar was silent.

“And at last we get a reaction,” Goezlin said.

“There’s not much point in talking about my family,” The Tsar said.

“Is that what you believe?” Goezlin said.

“You know it as well as I do,” The Tsar said.

Goezlin said nothing, but the display screen in front of The Tsar came to life. A photograph came up on the screen. The Tsar stared at it for a long moment.

“It’s a fake,” he said.

“You know it’s not,” Goezlin said, as more photographs flashed past in a quick slideshow. “And neither are these.”

“Identification and purpose?” The voice came out of a speaker in the centre of the ceiling. The language was the high language.

Chisnall looked carefully at the doors as he considered his reply. The glass was thick, no doubt bullet and bombproof, and the two sliding panels completely overlapped, providing a double layer of protection. In front of the doors a heavy metal shutter protruded from a ceiling panel, ready to slam shut in the event of an attack. This was what Kozi had called “light protection”.

“I bring an urgent report on the new human jets,” Chisnall said.

“We are in security lockdown,” the second, more senior guard said. “Please give us the information and we will pass it on.”

“The report is red-listed,” Chisnall said. “High security.”

“Then it can wait,” the senior guard said.

“No it cannot,” Chisnall said. “As it concerns an imminent attack on this building.”

There was silence as the two guards conferred with each other.

“There is no admission to this secure area until the situation above has been resolved,” the guard said. “If it is urgent, you will have to submit the report electronically.”

As he spoke, a Bzadian female in Azaykin uniform stepped into the security area behind him, talking urgently on a radio. She wore insignia denoting her rank. A captain of the guard. She looked up and caught Chisnall’s eye.

Chisnall kept his face impassive, giving no indication that he recognised or knew her. But he did. And his world had just turned upside down.

It was Kozi.

“Here they come,” Wall said.

Price nodded. She had heard it too. The sound of the doors opening.

The time The Tsar had bought them had just run out.

They were concealed in the art gallery at the rear of the atrium. She eased her head around a pillar. The entrance doors were open but the doorway remained empty. A head appeared, just a quick stolen glance, checking the corridor was clear. A few seconds later a soldier stepped into view, crouching, weapon at the ready. Another emerged from the opposite side of the doorway. Their weapons traversed the grand entranceway.

“Hold your fire,” Price murmured. “Let’s see how many we are dealing with before we engage.”

The uniform of these soldiers was different, Price noted. There was something hard and clean about them. Something very efficient about the way they moved into position.

“Nzgali,” Wall breathed.

The two on point moved forwards and four more joined in behind them. Another complete squad followed.

“A little closer,” Price murmured into the com. “Now.”

They had dialled their coil-guns up to maximum. Maximum noise, maximum damage. The noise, echoing off the pillars, was deafening. The glass doors behind the Nzgali shattered and several of the soldiers fell, their body armour shattered.

The rest hit the floor and began returning fire.

The pillars began to explode around the Angels in shards of concrete and plaster.

“Fall back, fall back!” Price said.

The Nzgali advanced in combat formation, moving in pairs, leapfrogging each other. One providing constant covering fire.

“You’re sure this is a good plan?” Barnard asked, ducking back behind a pillar as the edge of it exploded, right where her face had been a half second earlier.

“We’re about to find out,” Price shouted over the gunfire. She emptied a clip around her pillar without looking or aiming, then slid silently sideways as the other Angels retreated deeper into the gallery. She moved to a sculpture she had scouted out earlier. A model of something familiar to all human children, but mostly unknown to Bzadians. The wooden horse of Troy. A flat panel on the side was hinged. It lifted quietly. She slipped inside and waited, listening to the gunfire as the other Angels continued to move away, making sure the Bzadians heard them.

“Okay, we’re out,” Barnard said in Price’s ear. “Have locked the rear door. It’s just you and them now.”

“Just the way I like it,” Price whispered.

The Nzgali did not see her. They did not hear her. They did not detect her. In groups of two and three they moved past the wooden horse, smoothly, professionally, covering each other as they began their sweep of the gallery.

“You ready?” Barnard asked.

“Do it.”

All the lights in the gallery went out.

“On the floor, now!” The voice gave him no choice, and neither did the vicious kick to the back of his knees. Chisnall went down, hard, Brogan beside him.

A quick glance up showed a squad of heavily armed Azaykin surrounding them. There was no chance to reach for a weapon, no chance to pull out his puke spray grenade. The guards had slipped into the room behind them through some secret, silent door.