[0230 HOURS LOCAL TIME]
[BZADIAN CONGRESS, CANBERRA]
The war had been good to Colonel Nokz’z. Mostly.
Had it not been for the war he would have had nothing. He would have been nothing. He was under no illusion of that. At first they had said there would be no war, but there was war and when the war started they needed Nokz’z, or at least people like Nokz’z.
Brutality did not come naturally to the Bzadian species. It had once, but that was a very long time ago. War, violence, bloodshed, it had all disappeared over the centuries as their world had evolved. Bzadia had become a safer, gentler place. A dull, boring place, in Nokz’z opinion. Without death, or the threat of death, what was life? Just a meaningless cycle, the same day over and over and over again.
Weapons had gradually crumbled or been dismantled, existing only as curiosities in museums. Discussion was preferred over argument. Diplomacy over fighting. But to prepare for migration to a savage, violent world, Bzadians had been forced to rediscover their history. Warrior personalities, once reviled, were now revered.
Nokz’z considered himself a throwback to a glorious time. If not for people like him, they would have no chance against the barbarians that inhabited this planet called Earth.
Bzadia needed people who could do what he could do. Who would do what he was prepared to do. He was not like the others, Nokz’z knew that. He took pleasure in things that would horrify most of his kind. He knew that he was despised by many of his associates. But they tolerated him. They needed him. He told himself they secretly admired him and what he did, although he was too smart to really believe that.
Some of his compatriots felt sympathy for the humans, considering them noble savages who would eventually come to accept and tolerate Bzadian rule. To Nokz’z they were vermin, pests, and he was the exterminator.
But he did not tolerate failure, especially not in himself. And what had happened in the Bering Strait could be called nothing less. A small team of scumbugz, disguised as Bzadians, had disrupted the carefully laid plan for the invasion of the Americas. On the precipice of success, their million-strong army had been stopped in its tracks by four or five humans. Not just humans, children!
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.”