Vengeance (5 page)

A disaster, his masters had called it, and his punishment was to lose command of the invasion force. Those weak bureaucrats and soft politicians had had him reposted to the Coastal Defence of New Bzadia and the defence of the capital.

True, it was an important posting. They were too afraid of him to give him anything less, and the defence of the motherland could not be considered inconsequential. But when the invasion of the Americas finally took place, it would not be his name that would be on the flags of victory. It would not be Nokz’z, the conqueror of Earth, that children read about in history classes.

There was nothing he could do about that, for now. But that would change.

Bzadia needed people like Colonel Nokz’z.

And they needed him right now.

He strode into the command centre still in his sleeping robes, wiping his face with a damp cloth to refresh himself and remove traces of the night cream that kept his skin soft and youthful. His Vaza, who had woken him, followed immediately behind.

The duty officers in the command centre waited for him to speak, which he did, almost at once, tossing the cloth into a rubbish bin.

“Three Razers?” he asked.

“Yes, Colonel.” The reply came from the duty officer, a young captain named Dequorz.

“And how many human planes were involved?” Nokz’z asked.

“The patrol leader reported six,” Dequorz said. “They reached speeds of mach 7, and initial analysis indicates they could go much faster.”

Nokz’z considered that as he moved to sit in his own chair, in the centre of the room. He swivelled to face Dequorz.

“You are quite sure?” he asked.

With planes like that the humans would control the air. Planes like that could rip the Bzadian air force to shreds.

Dequorz nodded. “Radar tracking and the feed from the Razers confirms it.”

The Vaza came over and put her hand on Nokz’z’s shoulder. He covered it with his own, looking up at her with a grim smile. The significance of what they had just learned was not lost on anyone in the room.

“I am going to call a crisis meeting,” Nokz’z said. “These new aircraft could attack us anywhere at any time.”

“I concur,” Dequorz said. Even with all the authority of Nokz’z’s position, it took two of them to agree to call a crisis meeting: an immediate meeting of the High Council and all senior commanders. It was a rare occurrence. The last one had been during the failed invasion of the Americas, in the so-called “Second Ice War”.

Nokz’z entered codes into his armrest console and watched as Dequorz did the same. In just minutes the leadership of Bzadia would be awakened. He checked the time. Two-thirty in the morning. Some of the leaders would need time to travel into the capital.

“Schedule the meeting for 0630?” he asked.

“Again, I concur,” Dequorz said.

Nokz’z entered the time, knowing that already alarms would be sounding in the sleeping quarters of all the important Bzadian decision-makers.

“What was the Razer patrol doing when it was attacked?” he asked.

“Investigating a signal,” Dequorz said. “A ship off the coast. It turned out to be one of ours, destroyed but not sunk in the attacks yesterday.”

“That’s all?”

“No, sir. The patrol leader reported they had picked up some kind of anomaly near the ship. They were checking it out when they were attacked. We have reviewed the footage and there is nothing visible.”

“This is not a coincidence,” Nokz’z said. “Those new planes did not show up for no reason. They must have been protecting something.”

“What?” Dequorz asked.

“I don’t know, but something is happening out there,” Nokz’z said. “I want increased air and ground patrols up and down the coastline. Also …” He paused, thinking. He pressed his fingertips together lightly. “Where did those scumbugz jets come from?”

“The east,” Dequorz said.

“New Zealand,” Nokz’z said. “If we can find their base, then we can destroy them on the ground.”

[0455 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[BATEMAN’S BAY, AUSTRALIA]

When Price next checked the time it was nearly five. The coast of Australia was no longer a distant weight on the horizon, but a giant shadow against the pre-dawn sky. Within minutes, it seemed, the headlands of the bay slipped past and they entered the sheltered waters within.

The bay was wide at the entrance but narrowed rapidly. They docked at a small jetty, the only one still standing, although the remains of many more were scattered along the shoreline.

Barnard looked at Price. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to …?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Price said. The boat rocked as she took the narrow steep stairs that led down to the cabin and she had to hold the handrail for support.

She stopped and took a deep breath before rapping twice on the closed door.

“Rise and shine, Brogan,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

[0510 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[BZADIAN CONGRESS, CANBERRA]

The kitchen smelled like vomit. It always smelled that way, even now, at five in the morning, when nothing had yet started cooking.

The smell came from the huge leaves of the nuguz plant, a Bzadian delicacy. Humans called it pukeweed. Once, on a mission, Ryan Chisnall had found himself in a field of the plants and the stench had almost made him pass out.

Cooked, the smell was less pungent. Even so, it had taken Chisnall a week to accustom himself to the odour, so that he could work in a Bzadian kitchen without tossing his cookies into the nearest pot.

Not that the Bzadians would notice the difference if he did, Chisnall thought. And really the pukeweed was no stranger than some human delicacies. Chinese “stinky” tofu was said to smell like rotten garbage, and the Swedes had a fermented fish dish that smelled so bad it had to be eaten outdoors.

As a child, Chisnall had dreamed of being a chef. His mother had been a wonderful and creative cook and he loved watching her in the kitchen, helping out when he could.

Then his parents died. His father in the war, fighting Bzadians. His mother a year later, of a disease that would have been easily treated twenty years earlier. But there were too many people and there was too little medicine. Or perhaps she had wanted to die. She had grieved endlessly after the loss of his father. Chisnall had felt forgotten in the aftermath, a spectator to her grief, but that didn’t stop him grieving when she died. Then the Angels came along.

The induction program had been harsh, unforgiving, even cruel, but it took his mind off the death of his parents. When they offered him the officers’ course, he had said yes without question.

And in the cyclic nature of the universe, that had led him, eventually, to here. A chef. He was working for the enemy, but it was a position that gave him access to information that no other human had access to.

A chef. A spy.

He moved quietly among the highest circles of the Bzadian military, organising their meals, listening to their conversations.

Nobody noticed a chef.

As a junior chef, and a new one, Chisnall was very aware of his place, but he was also aware that more and more he was being requested as chef for meetings and formal dinners.

It was all about the salt.

Salt was virtually unknown on Bzadia, a desert planet, lacking the huge, saline oceans of Earth. Bzadian chefs who had experimented with it since their arrival on Earth generally used far too much, resulting in overly salty dishes that made the diners reach for their water bulbs.

Chisnall had added salt gradually, knowing how it enhanced the flavours of certain foods. It had worked, and his star was rising in the Bzadian kitchen.

It was no accident that had placed Chisnall, with a little training in Bzadian cuisine, in the kitchen at the Congress, the former Australian Parliament House, now the seat of Bzadian Government. His security credentials were impeccable and completely false. His references and work history were just as false, and just as outstanding.

He had started as a kitchen helper, but invisible hands manipulated the system, and within a month he was cooking meals.

The group behind it all called themselves the Peacemakers. Bzadians who were opposed to the war. They had saved his life after Operation Magnum, hidden his identity, healed him, and eased him into this position in the kitchen in Canberra.

The Peacemakers said they had a vision of a different future for Earth. Instead of humans being eradicated, or subjugated, they foresaw a world in which humans and Bzadians co-existed peacefully. For the most part he believed them, but Chisnall couldn’t shake a nagging feeling that they had a hidden agenda.

The head chef, Farzo, was standing at one end of the long kitchen space, waiting for all the chefs to stumble in, bleary-eyed, from their sleeping quarters. He had roused them for an announcement. There was to be an unscheduled meeting of the High Council. Many high-level regional commanders would be attending. The kitchen would be providing food. Farzo doled out assignments for the meeting, giving Chisnall an important role.

Chisnall kept his face neutral, but his thoughts were churning.
An unscheduled council meeting?
The Bzadian High Council didn’t hold unscheduled meetings. That meant it was a crisis meeting, and that meant something major had happened.

Could it be about the Angels?

Had the Bzadian military learned of the Angels’ mission? It was possible. ACOG security had more holes than a golf course.

But he couldn’t imagine the Bzadians calling a major emergency meeting over an Angel mission. It had to be more than that.

He put the thought out of his mind. Soon he would be inside the meeting room. He would find out then.

In the meantime he had ingredients to prepare.

[0520 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[BATEMANS BAY, NEW BZADIA]

The moon had risen now. A quarter moon. A Cheshire Cat moon, Price thought. It smirked from low above the horizon as the six teenagers on T-boards – three-wheeled, motorised Bzadian skateboards – eased their way through the dimly lit streets of the once thriving beach resort of Batemans Bay.

The aliens had no love of the ocean. On their desert planet there were no seas, no beaches, and few boats. For them, here on Earth, the seaside was a line where water met land, nothing more. As a consequence, the town was deserted, unwanted by the Bzadian invaders. There was an eerie feeling to it, a ghost town quality, as though the spirits of the former inhabitants lingered. Price felt it and she could tell that the other Angels did too, from the way they moved, the way they scanned the hollow eyes of the buildings around them.

On occasion, at an unexplained sound, or a sudden stirring of the steadily increasing breeze, a coil-gun would fly from its back-mount holster, springing over a shoulder into waiting hands. That would set off a chain reaction and suddenly all of them would be gripping their weapons, searching around them, wondering who had seen what, wondering what they had missed.

Almost all them.

Brogan didn’t have a weapon.

Price flicked the two sides of her tongue together. It felt natural, and not surprisingly. It had been many years since ACOG surgeons had split it, to give her the forked tongue of the Bzadians. Likewise, the irregular bumps on her head. After the war, when they were removed, she’d miss them, she thought. One thing she wouldn’t miss was the colour of her skin. The blotchy grey-green complexion that earned the aliens the nickname “Pukes” always made her feel slightly nauseous when she looked in a mirror. She wondered what would happen if she died on this mission. Would they turn her back into a human before they buried her? The other Angels who had died hadn’t had that opportunity, so why should she? Yet it seemed wrong to be buried, or even cremated, as a lie. She shook those thoughts from her head and tried to concentrate on the mission.

At the other end of town was the bridge that would take them across to the main highway. That road led to Canberra. Their mission objective. The top speed of the T-boards was around fifty kilometres per hour, but here in the town they were barely ticking over five. Walking pace. Once they hit the highway they would have to try to make up time, but here it was too dangerous. The buildings blocked The Tsar’s scanner. There was no telling what could be hidden around the next corner.

The debris of the town’s past littered the area, fungal-green in the glow of the night-vision lenses. Masts of yachts protruded from the bay: watery tombstones for what lay beneath. Derelict cars rusted in parking lots. In a playground along the foreshore the tattered remains of a children’s swing lurched unsteadily in the strong but fitful breeze.

It unsettled Price, skulking along the waterfront here. It unsettled her more than tabbing through the night-time desert in the Australian outback, more than clambering over ice ridges and inching across crevasses in the frozen sub-arctic. It unsettled her because she had grown up in a town just like this. A small beach community.

She associated that place, on the east coast of New Zealand, with the happiest times in her life. Before her father died. Before what came next.