Bzrk Apocalypse by Michael Grant Page A

was still a great
    talent and this Pope rather liked the conversation of talented people.
    A banker, a reporter, a union boss, an Argentinean politician
    (the Pope was not fond of politicians as a rule), a scientist who had
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    discovered a way to raise sorghum crop yields dramatically, and last,
    before the actor, Lystra Reid, a youngish woman with tattoos peeking
    out from beneath her expensive clothing.
    “Your Holiness,” Lystra Reid said, and knelt, and kissed his ring.
    And at that moment four of Bug Man’s nanobots leapt from her
    lips, slick with lipstick, to the cold metal of what was known as the
    Fisherman’s Ring.
    A quarter mile away, Bug Man said, “And that’s how the pros do
    it,” and did a little fist pump.
    The Pope’s audience was broadcast via a closed-circuit station
    from the Vatican, and of course streamed, so Bug Man could see it
    all play out in the macro even as he was marveling at the unusual
    smoothness of the ring’s gold surface.
    “You’re back,” Burnofsky said. “I mean, welcome back.”
    They stared at him, unnerving him as they often did. Were they
    going to kill him right here, right now? Surely they must suspect that
    he had been wired. Maybe he should just put it out there; maybe he
    should just blurt it out.
    Are you watching all this, Nijinsky? Or are you in my ear listen-
    ing? Or are you drunk and passed out, you sad degenerate?
    Burnofsky was pleased to realize that he was not afraid to die.
    Yet, he was afraid to die too soon. BZRK had reprogrammed him,
    brutally shifted his emotions, but it was crude work. Typical of the
    lesser BZRKers. Vincent would have done a better job. Vincent would
    have found a way to wire him for true loyalty. All Nijinsky had accom-
    plished was to turn Burnofsky—for now at least—away from the bottle
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    and the pipe. He had implanted very strong inhibitions against telling
    the Twins all he knew. He had turned Burnofsky’s most terrible secret
    into a source of sickening pleasure, and oh, that had been cruel work.
    But still: crude and ham-fisted. Burnofsky could no longer be
    said to be working for the Twins, true, but he was still working for

himself, still pursuing his own agenda. Nijinsky thought his watch-
    ful biot would allow him to see and understand what Burnofsky was
    doing.
    Foolish boy. Male model. I’m one of the great minds of the cen-
    tury, and you think I can’t carry out my work right under your nose?
    “Karl, it’s good to see you,” Charles lied.
    Benjamin’s one-eyed stare would freeze lava.
    “It’s good to have you gentlemen back,” Burnofsky said. “I’m, um,
    well, sorry for your . . .”
    “Defeat?” snarled Benjamin. “Are you sorry for our defeat ?”
    “Your loss,” Burnofsky said, finding the right word. “I’m sorry
    for your loss.”
    “Fuck your sympathy,” Benjamin snapped.
    Charles intervened smoothly. “My brother and I are both griev-
    ing. You can understand our . . . impatience.”
    “What can I do for you?” Burnofsky asked. Benjamin’s anger had
    sent him back in his mind to Carla. To his daughter. It had been in
    this room, just over there, closer to the desk. That’s where he had
    come to them—drunk, stoned, filled with sorrow so deep and shame
    so dark that it would poison him as surely as a dose of strychnine.
    There, yes, right there he had reported to them that the deed was done
    and his daughter was dead.
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    They had said then that they were sorry for his loss.
    He swallowed hard, trying to avoid the terrible rush of pleasure
    that flowed each time he recalled the murder, each time, oh, God, to
    enjoy it, to be excited by it . . .
    For a moment he thought he might vomit. Or actually become
    physically aroused. Or both at once.
    I will kill you, Nijinsky. I don’t know how, but I will kill you.
    “Massed preprogrammed attack,” Charles said, trying to take
    control of the conversation to forestall more rage