Task Force by Brian Falkner Page A

working, worried that the power outage might have affected the phone network. She dialed Nanzi’s phone and was relieved to hear the sound of ringing. The cellular system they had inherited from the humans operated on its own backup power supply.
    She drew a sidearm and a set of night-vision goggles from the armory and set off for the bridge.
    The T-board hummed under Chisnall’s feet, his speed steady at twenty miles per hour, according to the GPS on his wrist computer. His coil-gun was holstered on his back, and his Puke spray was ready on his utility belt. He scanned the buildings on both sides of the river, watching for any sign of life, for any interest in the river.
    A vehicle turned a corner, spotlighting the team for a moment—like escaping prisoners against the wall of a jail—before sweeping on. Traffic was otherwise light, pedestrians were few, and the buildings around them were silent and still. Even so, Chisnall had the sense that a thousand eyes, in a thousand darkened windows, were staring at the river.
    “This is really creepy,” Wilton said in an eerie echo of Chisnall’s thoughts.
    “You got that right,” Price said.
    “Meh, this is nothing,” the Tsar said.
    “Here we go,” Price said.
    “In Japan we had to recon through dense forest,” the Tsar said. “There could have been an ambush behind every tree, a booby trap under every step.”
    “Gosh, that sounds dangerous. Did you survive?” Barnard asked, wide-eyed.
    The Tsar ignored her. “What I did then, and what I’m doing now, is to focus every sense. I’m listening, noticing even the tiniest sound. I’m smelling things. My eyes are scanning every object in my vicinity, evaluating it as a possible threat.”
    “And I guess the scope helps,” Price said.
    “I can smell something right now,” Barnard said. “Bull.”
    Again, the Tsar didn’t rise to the bait. “Try it,” he said.
    “Oh, I’m trying,” Price said. “I’m listening as hard as I can, but all I can hear is you yapping.”
    The Tsar was silent at that, and for all their scorn, Chisnall found the Tsar was right. Once you were aware of it, the air was full of sound. The sound of truck engines reverberating off city blocks. The dull burr of the task force beneath the waters of the river. Overhead, the harsh caws of parakeets and crows and the screech of fruit bats. There were smells too. More than he had realized. This close to the river there was an odor of muddy water, tinged with decay.
    The Tsar didn’t stay silent for long. “There was one time—”
    “Shut up, Tsar,” the others said in unison.

    The concrete path they were following took a sharp turn away from the river. Ahead of them was a grassy park, dotted with shrubs. Chisnall led the way into the park, wanting to stay by the river’s edge.
    Bzadians didn’t celebrate the human New Year, but the two Bzadian teenagers here were locked in a celebration all of their own.
    Chisnall’s rifle leaped into his arms at the sight of two figures appearing from a dip in the ground, seemingly from nowhere, but he relaxed and reholstered it as the two, awkward and embarrassed, tried to rearrange their clothing and act as though they were just out for an evening stroll.
    Chisnall sent them on their way with a short admonition, reflecting that a lot of human kids in the Free Territories were probably up to much the same thing that night. The young Bzadian female giggled as they disappeared into the nearby streets, hand in hand, and for a moment Chisnall felt even more keenly the weight that was pressing on his shoulders.
    “How sweet,” the Tsar said.
    “Not when they’re Pukes,” Wilton said.
    “Even when they’re Pukes,” the Tsar said.
    Barnard snorted.
    “Never been in love, huh, Barnard?” the Tsar said.
    “Love?” Barnard said. “No such thing. It’s merely a convenience for society.”
    “You’d make a good Bzadian,” Price said. “That’s how they think.”
    “Don’t worry, Barnard,