by A D Davies
No one.
Jules assessed himself for injuries, dusted mud from his shoulder and checked no muck had spotted his face. Once satisfied, he opened the heavy-duty jacket—the day being mild rather than outright cold—and pulled his shirt over the belt containing his throwing knives and spare mini flashbangs.
He strolled out from his spot, casual as you like, and looked around as if lost. He didn’t even need to ask directions. A woman bearing a tattoo on her chin—her moko kauae—pointed towards the center of the village and said, “I think you took a wrong turn, mate. Your party’ll be that way.”
“Thanks.” Jules acted suitably bashful, and speed walked away from the performers’ eyes.
The village’s construction reminded Jules of a western frontier town, which was unlikely to have been how an authentic village existed before white settlers descended upon the Land of the Long White Cloud. It served its purpose, though. The farther he wandered, the more facilities became clear, from a toilet block to a gift shop. Men and women of indeterminate nationalities milled around, exploring facsimiles of homes through the ages. On each dwelling, a guide delivered a quick hello and asked people if they wanted to know more about this stop on their tour. Like other staff here, like Tane, he didn’t get the impression they resented any of this, as if they were proud to share their history, whilst living in the modern world. It made Jules wonder if he should look closer into his own family tree.
That was for another time.
To blend in, he looked inside one of the small houses, a round construction with a roof made from branches and leaves but did not hang around to take in the educational aspect.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and let his shoulders drop, going for a faintly disappointed demeanor, which seemed to be what the majority of those under thirty were feeling. Or maybe they were hungry. It was still at least two hours before dinner, and they had to occupy themselves until then. He noticed a bar decked out like a caravan from the 1930s, around which several overweight men and a couple of women were enjoying beers.
Then he saw them. The Koreans. Some of them trying a little too hard to misrepresent themselves as Chinese. They overdid it with red caps featuring the golden Chinese flag symbols of a large star on the left with four stars in a crescent beside it which Jules knew citizens of that country rarely wore. An oversight, perhaps, or the agents in charge marking minions whom they regarded as pawns rather than those with meatier roles in the plan.
Jules scanned the wide street, lingering on the more interesting features, zoning in on a one-story museum entrance which extended around the back of the façades. He approached, fumbling out a phone, as most tourists here were carrying. He watched from the reflections in the museum’s window as the surrounding tourists followed a set route, some accompanied by a personal guide, for which they must have paid extra.
Jules had suffered racism in the past, both overt and born of ignorance rather than hatred. One such offence that people of color encountered was the notion that “they all look the same to me.” While race blindness was a real thing to a degree, usually experienced by those who lived separate from diverse communities, Chinese and Koreans shared enough DNA for the most observant analyst to confuse the two. Here, it was more than an annoyance, since Jules could not even begin to guess who might be a bad guy.
Except for those trying too hard.
He had to work with what was in front of him, so he peeled away from the museum window and moved towards a man and a woman, the man one of those wearing a Chinese branded baseball cap. Rather than approaching directly as the pair snacked on a bag of potato chips, he hung back and watched from the corner of a mocked-up blacksmith shop. Beside the blacksmith’s, a pair of women wove cloth using a wooden jenny, a contraption much like a simplified spinning wheel. There was a gap between the buildings, a small alleyway which Jules used to partially conceal his presence, revealing himself to be an amateur spy.
Or that was the hope.
As soon as the woman made eye contact with Jules, he dipped his chin and scratched his face, overtly wincing and switching his attention elsewhere.
Unfortunately, elsewhere was a thickset man wearing a pair of sturdy boots and cargo pants, his big leather jacket concealing whatever he wore up top. He couldn’t have looked more like a gangster if he tried. He also was not stupid, clocking that Jules had recognized him right away.
A quick flick of his head left and right, and the burly man charged at Jules. He acted so rapidly and with such an unremarkable gait, it was unlikely anyone would have seen him crashing Jules backwards into the four-foot-wide gap between the buildings.
The assailant was almost as wide as the thoroughfare, which lent Jules a brief advantage. He deployed a reverse hammer fist to the man’s groin, but a block greeted his strike. He followed it up with an elbow uppercut which slammed home into the man’s head, and for a moment Jules thought he had landed a sturdy blow. But the man had a thick skull and was touching his ear as he recovered. He spoke in rapid-fire Korean, presumably alerting his comrades. Jules took advantage of the lull and retreated around the back of the blacksmith’s.
He ran at full pelt down the rough track, built for people to get around rather than enjoy a stroll with nature. The trees that had been cleared for Kainga Pukepuke were not entirely gone from this area, the stumps protruding from the ground made for a neat springboard onto a generator, then a roof. This evaded a pair of Koreans playing Chinese tourist trying to cut him off.
Summitting the building, he leaped the gap between properties, landing on a slatted roof and persisting at the same rapid pace. Over the top of this one, he slid on his backside, dropped off the edge, and reversed his course past the performers on a break. Already, four undercover agents had broken free and were chasing him without trying to hide.
Jules summoned his mental map and determined the best route away from this location was to skirt the rugby club, which he calculated was a risk, but less of a risk than causing a panic or inviting gunfire near innocents. The woods bordered this field too, so it was a decent place to find cover if needed. He also reminded himself of the gun he carried.
As he rounded the corner to the rugby club, a tree branch swung towards him. He spotted it early enough to limbo under it, and the wood only glanced his forehead. Not even sufficient to dizzy him.
The assailant was one of the Koreans, so Jules didn’t hesitate in wedging a side kick to the man’s knee, levering him over his hip before halting the roll halfway, then reversing direction. By this point Jules had him by the wrists and the spinning motion sprained the man’s limb, releasing the tree branch, which Jules stabbed like a spear towards a shadow, ducking at the same time. The shadow’s gun went off, and a bullet whizzed over his head as the improvised weapon landed in the attacker’s gut. Jules used his foot to smash the man’s nose, then pirouetted for extra weight, and the branch snapped as it took him out at the temple.
The other two had caught up, drawn their handguns, and Jules had to dive for cover behind the clubhouse. Three shots rang out and splintered the corner. This pair was both dressed ostentatiously in shell suits, possibly the most well-disguised of the agents, and must have kept their guns in the fanny packs which hung open.
Rather than running into open land, Jules nipped back the way he came, caught the pair by surprise, and threw the remaining stub of the branch their way. As the nearest attacker swatted at the projectile, the other hesitated before drawing down on Jules scurrying at a pre-planned angle. Unlike when he’d got the distance and timing wrong with the gunman in Alabama, Jules zigzagged and flicked one of his throwing knives. It stabbed the man in the shoulder, giving Jules time to catch up, over-rotate his opponent’s wrist, and wrench the gun from his hands. Bent double, the side of his neck presented an easy target for Jules to shock his carotid with a strong knee.
Jules aimed back the way he came, finding his first assailant from the alleyway jogging in a manner he expected fat people to do. However, t
his man was mostly muscle and also wielded a small handgun.
Jules could take no chances here, so aimed and fired. Twice.
Pop pop.
It took the man out in the shoulder, then the hand, which surrendered the gun to the floor. But he kept coming.
Jules fired into the man’s thighs. One in each.
Pop pop.
This time he fell over, face-first into the dirt. A brutal take-down, but Jules was running out of space and, potentially, time. So far, his attackers had been pawns, but there were surely more skilled fighters among them. Such as the guy he’d shot who barely grunted with the pain, just used his one uninjured hand to scoop soil into the wounds to prevent more blood loss.
Jules hurried toward the woods bordering the field. He didn’t get very far. The rugby team had approached and formed a two-man deep semicircle, barring his way.
Jules said, “Okay, I know how this is gonna sound, but this ain’t what it looks like.”
The biggest chap on the pitch, the one who had issued the first “Hey” when Jules landed, stepped forward, his eyes on the gun in Jules’s hand. “You’re with Bobby, aren’t you?”
“Bobby Arono, yeah.” Jules looked around at the team. “We cool?”
Another youngster, as tall as Jules and at least fifty pounds heavier, gave a chuckle and said, “Sounds like you’re doing a lotta good up there.” He indicated the volcano. “We’ll take care of this.”
Murmurs of agreement followed from his teammates as they spread out towards the injured Koreans.
One of only two Caucasian boys on the team stepped forward, grinning, a role of gray electrical tape in his hands. He picked off the end and pulled out a length with a hearty rip. “We love us a bit of gaffer tape.”
“Thanks, guys.” Jules clapped the guy he assumed to be the captain on the shoulder, as he’d seen sportspeople do to one another, then ran through the middle of them. Wishing he could spend a little more time thanking them, he mimicked one of Tane’s idiosyncrasies and called back, “Catch you later, brah.”
And then he was navigating through the woods, listening for the heavier footfalls of pursuing gunmen as he made for the river and away from the Kainga population.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ah Dae-Sung and Pang Pyong-Ho remained patient. On the fringes of the village, they had mingled with Americans away from those using the Chinese ruse. They’d had plenty of practice lately, even perfecting the accents and boisterous manner in which those vulgar individuals acted. They toned it down somewhat, as Americans tended to do when surrounded by their betters. Frankly, Dae-Sung was of the opinion they should act like that all the time, since there were few corners of the world where people were not better than that accursed nation.
They had an unobstructed view down the area known as Main Street, a similar reference to the supposedly wholesome area of small towns the world over. Commander Ah had watched the scramble of soldiers brought in to support them after delivering the shield to Executive Ryom’s people, and it had been efficient work. Civilians back home would not have blinked at the actions of the security services chasing down someone who had, perhaps, expressed a view contrary to the welfare of the nation. However, here it drew more than a little attention.
“Goddamn it,” Pyong-Ho said in his near-perfect west coast American accent. “About time there was some excitement around here.”
Ah Dae-Sung joined in, adding for anyone within earshot, “Maybe they’ll speed up that food now.”
Americans nodded in agreement. It left them free to shift to one side for a better view.
“Why is he here?” Pyong-Ho asked.
“Our presence must have been detected.”
Dae-Sung trawled his memory for how this had occurred and wondered how the New Zealanders thought he could be so stupid as to fall for such a trick. They were dangling bait, a talented and gifted specimen who could benefit the Korean people. Dae-Sung had learned only recently of the man’s additional gifts, how he influenced the spheres that were powering Korea’s revival, or would do once they returned.
But why do it in such an obvious manner?
Ah Dae-Sung asked, “How many have not been incapacitated?”
Pang Pyong-Ho had taken notice of those dropping off-line, although he’d admitted he couldn’t see who had survived after chasing their quarry. “Aside from us, there are seven patriots.”
Ah Dae-Sung considered the risk, the benefits, and decided to be bold. After all, wasn’t that what Executive Ryom preached? How he had demonstrated his own superiority? It was what set him, and those who believed in his project, apart from the rank and file in the armed forces and the citizenry who sat back and enjoyed the security bestowed upon them.
Was that how they were to justify the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people? Would it even stop at hundreds of thousands? Could it go over a million?
If the defensive act planned by the Executive worked, there would be sacrifices, but how many more lives would it save?
Several million?
It all came down to how unstable the orb made the directional power of the shields. Unchecked, the only way to be sure it didn’t wipe out their own population was to cast the net wide and scrape it backwards until it covered their borders.
But what if some individual with conscious control over that power was to assist them? Would that result in fewer lives lost? Could he keep it down to a few thousand instead of many thousands?
That sort of thinking was an example of weakness. All that mattered was achieving their goal.
And yet, did Dae-Sung want to be slandered with the same label afforded to famous men throughout history who were “following orders?” Nazis, Communists, savages across Africa…?
There was no need to ask that question of himself. He was certain that Executive Ryom was acting in the best interests of all Koreans, and indeed those who would be pulled into a conflict to assist the Americans. But if they showed mercy in that initial act of defiance, surely it would encourage the sympathy they needed from the international community. Surely, a less bloody conclusion would be of benefit to all people.
“Bring him.” Ah Dae-Sung said. “He will be extremely useful.”
Using a discrete microphone up his sleeve, Pyong-Ho gave the order. Ah Dae-Sung just hoped it wasn’t a mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bridget couldn’t see what was happening down in the valley, but she could hear it, as it was being patched through Project Ahua’s intercom rather than the subvocal feeds they were used to. Jules’s recon had gone awry, switching quickly to a mission aimed at drawing the danger away from innocents. Perhaps, with the shield’s ill-defined ability to cloud curiosity, they would concentrate on Jules and on the other boys out playing soldier.
Whatever, it would buy them time. But would it be enough?
“I still don’t understand how they found us,” Prihya said.
“Yeah, right.” Charlie was busy digesting the machine’s workings. “We show up and suddenly Valerio Conchin’s girl is stalling us out, giving us a tour, introducing us to her pet lab experiments—”
Prihya slapped the control desk. “You think I brought them here? It’s you people who showed up out of the blue and—”
Toby stepped between them. “Now, now, rehashing that isn’t helpful. Let’s use our time here wisely.”
The two women stared at him. Sally stared at him, glancing at Prihya.
Only Bridget kept her mind in the right gear. “Can we turn down their feed for a bit? I need to concentrate.”
Charlie switched the boys’ voices over to a headset so only she could hear their stilted communication between one another. She would speak up if anything important occurred.
Bridget returned to the frosted screen with the glyphs pulled from the rock and digitally restored, arranged in the exact size and pattern they would have been displayed around the entrance to the activation suite. “How long do we have?”
“Until
when?” Prihya asked.
“Until anything we do here no longer matters.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Charlie said, checking connections on the cables.
“Can’t,” Prihya answered firmly. “Because we don’t know their intentions, or if your ‘action dudes’ will be successful or not. We’ve evacuated all non-essential personnel, just in case. There’s a security cordon on all entrances, and they’ve sent an alert to Julia Grainger. She has backup on standby, but this isn’t a military installation. It’s a science lab being attacked by foreign forces. We might have a squad of Kiwi special forces dropping in, an attack from North Korean mercenaries, or both, or none of the above.”
“Too many variables,” Toby agreed. “What do we need to accomplish? Here, in this room?”
Bridget thought that was the easiest one to answer. “Figure out how to use our machine to stop their machine.”
Sally tutted and shook her head, joining Bridget to watch the screen. “Something these people haven’t achieved in several months. With more resources and less time pressure.”
“We just need to understand it better.” Bridget fixed on each symbol one at a time. Absorbing it into herself. “We have to get into the guts of it.”
Toby also came alongside, pointing out English notations on the glass. “Prihya, you’ve already deciphered these.”
“Yes.” Prihya made up the foursome, leaving Charlie to continue her inspection alone. “When I was with Valerio, we made some inroads. There’s a lot of intonation, almost a… mood about certain symbols.”
“Agreed,” Bridget said. “The angle of an inscription can say something different to an identical numeral or hieroglyph if it’s accented a different way.”
“I began to think of it as a written version of spoken tongue. Like we use emojis in an email or text message to show sarcasm or an intent at humor, whereas if we didn’t include that it might look insulting or give an incorrect meaning.”