[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.