Vengeance (8 page)

She was tall for a Bzadian, probably a bobblehead like Yozi. He caught his breath as he realised where she was standing. The place he avoided. Twenty-seventh picture from the right. Third row.

He looked straight ahead and held the platter high. Just a chef, going about his business.

It didn’t work. She looked up as he approached and caught his eye.

“I knew him,” she said, her head bobbing slightly as she talked, confirming his guess.

Chisnall used one hand to cover his face briefly. A Bzadian gesture for “I beg your pardon.”

“We were paired for fifteen years,” she said.

Chisnall stopped walking. To continue would be considered rude. It would attract attention he did not want to attract.

“It is unusual in our culture,” she said.

Chisnall said nothing, but could not help the widening of his eyes.

Our culture
, she had said. In a society where people did not form lasting relationships it was unusual for paired couples to stay together longer than a few years. But why had she used the words “our culture” to another Bzadian? Surely she would only say that if she knew, or suspected, that he was human.

“He would never admit it to anyone,” she said. “For fear of ridicule. But it was true.”

A highly ranked general rounded the corner of the corridor ahead of them, talking in a low voice with his Vaza: a tall, misshapen female who was his bodyguard, among other things. The general glanced at Chisnall.

“I must return,” Chisnall said, shuffling the empty platter around on his arm.

She was silent as the general and his Vaza approached within earshot, then said, a little more loudly, “The other members of the group wanted me to pass on our appreciation of your appetisers. They were delightful.”

Chisnall smiled and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is a pleasure to serve, and I will pass your compliments on to the others involved.”

The pair passed with a sideways glance.

The woman looked back at the photograph and lowered her voice again. “He was a hero long before Uluru,” she said. “Ask any of those who served with him.”

“Of course,” Chisnall said, wishing he had something more significant to say and desperately wanting to get back to the kitchen.

“Nobody knows what happened at Wivenhoe,” she said. “His body was never found.”

“That is sad,” Chisnall said. “But I must excuse myself. My head chef will be wondering where–”

“Some people did not want his photo on this wall,” she said. “They think he was somehow responsible for the disaster at Wivenhoe, or didn’t do enough to stop it. But I knew him. I know he would have done everything he could, and more.”

Chisnall’s mind flooded with images of Yozi diving into the waters of the dam, disappearing below the water as he disarmed the bomb Chisnall had placed there. Then that image faded and all that remained was the look of calm acceptance, as a giant snakehead of water rose above Yozi and prepared to strike.

“I’m sure … he was a hero … at Wivenhoe,” Chisnall said.

“Yes,” the woman mused. “I’m sure he was. But only Chizna would be able to tell us that.”

A fist suddenly clenched around his heart at the use of his Bazadian alias. Panic, an urge to run that welled up from deep within him, spreading icy fingers throughout his body. But panic was a killer. That thought had been rammed into him until it was ingrained in his psyche and that gave him the strength to stay where he was, and even to smile a little as he shook his head. “Chizna? I don’t know this name.”

For the first time she turned to face him, glancing quickly both ways along the corridor first.

“It is not safe to talk here,” she said. “I will meet you in the art gallery. I will be there in an hour.”

She whirled, her robes flowing out around her, then was gone.

Price could hear the rotorbot now, a soft humming from above them. Scanning the sky carefully, she finally caught a glimpse of it, a black disc blotting out stars. It was incredibly bad luck to have been caught by one of these things in such an exposed place.

She used her hands and feet to grip the four corners of her camo sheet, stretching it out tightly, holding it down against the easterly wind, strong and blustery here on the bridge.

The rotorbot flew well above the girders of the bridge, not slowing.

Thank God!

The beating of Price’s heart began to ease as the sound receded and the rotorbot, just a vague dark blur now, drifted towards the far shore.

“Are we clear?” she asked The Tsar when the disc had moved out of sight.

“I think so,” The Tsar said.

“It’s coming back,” Brogan said. “Nobody move.”

How she knew, Price had no idea. Brogan had slid under the rusting wreck of the car. That, plus her camo sheet, gave her good protection from the hovering bot.

“No, it’s not,” The Tsar said. “It’s continuing to move over the town.”

“It’s coming back,” Brogan said again.

“What do you know about rotorbots, Barnard?” Price asked.

“Enough,” Barnard said.

“Then talk, and quickly,” Price said.

“Okay,” Barnard said. “They’re primarily designed for surveillance, with high-res and thermal cameras, plus sensitive microphones.”

“Any armaments?” Price asked.

Barnard nodded. “Twin needle guns and a short range, anti-personnel rocket, all mounted underneath. And Brogan’s right. If a rotorbot thinks it has a contact it moves away. Lulls the enemy into a false sense of security. Then it comes back and compares the images before and after, to see if anything has changed.”

“Everybody hold where you are,” Price said.

She shifted just slightly on the rough surface of the road. A stone that she hadn’t noticed when she lay down now seemed to be burrowing its way into her back.

“Oh crap,” The Tsar said. “It’s heading back.”

“Oh, now there’s a surprise,” Brogan said.

Price scanned the sky above them but all she could see was the boxy grid of the bridge girders and the faceless smirk of the moon.

[0550 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[BATEMANS BAY, NEW BZADIA]

The rotorbot hovered just above them, so close that Price felt she could hear every swish of its rotors. She kept her eye pressed to the spyhole, watching the blur of the blades, feeling the downdraft as it hovered over her.

It had flown over the top of the bridge the first time, but then had returned much lower, inside the box girder construction of the main span of the bridge. It had passed over once, then returned.

Clearly something had disturbed it. Perhaps the odd lumps on the otherwise flat surface of the road.

“Think it knows we’re here?” The Tsar asked, his voice little more than a murmur in Price’s earpiece.

“It knows something’s here,” Barnard said. “It just isn’t sure what.”

“If it knew, it would have blown us all to hell by now,” Wall said.

“It will be relaying pictures to its base for analysis,” Barnard added.

“So we can expect company any time soon,” Price said. “We need to get out of here.”

“You move a muscle and the rotorbot will chew you to bits,” Barnard said.

“Any chance it will get bored and go away?” The Tsar asked.

“Poor to none,” Barnard said. “Once it has detected a possible threat it will stick with it. Unless it detects a more direct threat somewhere else.”

“How do we kill it?” The Tsar asked.

“Not easy,” Barnard said. “They’re well-armoured underneath. The brains are on top, in the middle, where you can’t get a shot at them.”

The rotorbot moved lower, hovering barely a metre or so above Price. She stopped talking. She stopped breathing, not wanting the slightest movement to be noticed by the killing machine above her. But there was movement. The downwash of the rotorbot was rippling the fabric of the camo sheet. She gripped the hand and footholds in each corner, stretching the sheet as tautly as she could.

The rotorbot came even lower, caressing her body with cold hands of air. One of its needle-guns turned slightly, aiming right at her head. Could it see her eye through the tiny pinhole?

To the south end of the bridge she saw a slight movement.

The Tsar had taken advantage of the rotorbot’s focus on Price and had crawled out from under his camo sheet.
What is he doing? It will see him for sure
.

It started to turn in his direction and, without really thinking what she was doing, she let go of one of the corners of her camo sheet.

It rustled and flapped in the wind and the breeze from the rotor. The rotorbot immediately turned back.

She snapped the sheet tight and froze as the rotorbot prowled around her like a dog sniffing out a bone.

The Tsar climbed onto the railing of the bridge. It was rusting and brown flakes crumbled under his touch, but there was no sound as they drifted to the ground. Above him towered a tall girder, easily wide enough for him to hide behind, if he could reach it before the rotorbot turned again.

Price did not dare move. The rotorbot was already way too interested in her little patch of the roadway.

Even as she thought that, the rotorbot jumped up as if startled and shot back to the southern end of the bridge. Someone else had had the same idea, Price realised. A slight movement. Enough to catch the machine’s interest without attracting fire.

She moved her head just slightly so she could see the tower through the spy-hole. The Tsar was gone, hidden behind the girder.

What was he thinking? She couldn’t figure out his plan, if he had one. She looked up.

In the centre of the tower hung a massive concrete weight, a counterbalance for the weight of the centre span. Parts of the tower had fallen away, but an enclosed ladder remained. It led up to the top of the span and the remains of the bridge’s control cabin. Now she saw it. His plan was to get above the rotorbot.

The rotorbot spun around in her direction and she froze again.

It drifted back to where The Tsar had been, to where his camo sheet lay flat on the road. It seemed agitated, if an automated surveillance rotorcraft could be agitated.

She realised what it was doing. Exactly what Barnard had said it would do. It was comparing before and after shots of the same area of the bridge. One of the lumps in the roadway was gone. It probably wasn’t smart enough to work out what was wrong, but it knew something was different.

It stayed in that location, but spun around to face the southern end of the bridge. The second it was facing away, The Tsar was moving again. She saw him put a foot on the first rung of the ladder, testing it. It held, and there were no creaks, squeaks, clangs or other noises. He took a firm hold of one of the higher rungs and swung himself onto the ladder. He still hadn’t attracted the attention of the rotorbot.

He went up a few rungs quickly then froze as the rotorbot again rotated in his direction, needle-guns probing the darkness. It began to move towards Price and she willed it back. Somehow it worked. It reversed its course.

A few more rungs, then a few more, and The Tsar was level with the machine. Still it faced away from him. He reached the top of the span, where a narrow walkway led across to the control cabin. He was above the rotorbot now, out of view of its camera.

The Tsar drew his sidearm. The rotorbot hovered just below him. He kneeled down to steady his aim and reduce the distance. The rotorbot moved; The Tsar aimed again. He fired. The needle-gun hissed.

The rotorbot moved just slightly as he pulled the trigger, changing position by a matter of millimetres. It was enough. Price heard the shot hit the metal hull of the craft and ricochet out over the side of the bridge.

The rotorbot reacted instantly, sensing that it was under attack. From the sound and direction of the shot, it must have worked out exactly where its attacker was. It ascended, trying to get above The Tsar, but quickly realised that it was constrained by the top span of the bridge. It was only a metre below him and The Tsar tried to line up on it again. Before he could fire, the rotorbot’s brain figured out what it had to do.

It swept back along the bridge, towards clear air, where it could rise up higher and bring its cameras, and its guns, to bear.

The Tsar whirled, trying to get off another shot, but with such a small target, moving so rapidly, he had no chance.

The rotorbot reached the end of the enclosed section but as it did, there was a shout, and movement on the bridge below.

Price looked down in horror to see Wall running back along the bridge, yelling at the top of his voice. Her first thought was that he had panicked and lost it. But surely not. Not Wall. He was as tough as nails. He was distracting it, she realised.

The rotorbot swivelled and began to chase after him, again passing right below The Tsar, crouched on the rusted metal walkway.

He twisted around and over the side of the walkway, dropping down between two of the girders. The armour on his left arm rasped against one of the girders with a metallic shriek but there was no longer any need to be quiet.

He landed squarely on top of the rotorbot as it flew underneath. Price heard the hissing of its needle-guns as man and machine fell from the sky, the combined weight far too much for the small rotor-blade engine.