Vengeance (20 page)

“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 asked.

“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.

[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.”