Bzrk Apocalypse by Michael Grant Page B

from his brother.
    They could still use Burnofsky, so long as they were careful. Let him
    reveal all to BZRK: without details it would mean nothing.
    “What about preprogrammed attack?” Burnofsky asked cau-
    tiously.
    Charles smiled. “It’s time we learned more about some of our . . .
    toys.” He nodded. “Yes, Karl, we want to learn how to do it.”
    “You mean, how to program an attack using self-replicating
    nanobots? Yourselves?”
    “Are we too stupid?” Benjamin demanded. “Is that what you
    think? Do you think we rose from where we began to all of this by
    being stupid?” He waved his hand to encompass all of what he’d ear-
    lier called his gilded cage.
    No, by being rage-filled lunatics , Burnofsky thought. And by hav-
    ing a very rich grandfather.
    “I am very well aware of your intellect,” Burnofsky soothed.
    “Perhaps not quite on your level, Karl,” Charles said. “But as I
    understand it, there’s an app for this.”
    Burnofsky’s first thought was that they meant to use it against
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    him. But no, there were so many ways they could kill him, they
    wouldn’t be cute about it.
    “Gentlemen,” Burnofsky said, “if you have thirty minutes, I can
    teach you to use the app.”
    “Wake up, Anthony. You have a visitor.”
    Bug Man sat up fast. The lights were on. But it must still be night
    out beyond the shuttered windows.
    George III had a cup of coffee in his hand. He gave it to Bug Man.
    “What?” Bug Man said.
    “Someone wants to meet you.”
    Bug Man was not yet fully awake, but he was getting there fast.
    “No one knows I’m here.” Awful suspicion blossomed. “You sold me
    out! You mother—”
    “Drink your coffee,” George said, and sighed. “If I was selling you
    out, would I start by bringing you a cappuccino? It’s full-fat milk—
    you’re not watching your cholesterol, I hope.”
    Bug Man took a sip. George was trying to act cool, but he was
    upset. Something had disturbed his typical sangfroid.
    “Put on some clothing. It’s just one of my compatriots here to brief
    you on next steps.” He was lying. He was lying and he was jumpy, very
    unlike his usual self.
    “In the middle of the night?”
    “She has an early flight.” George left the room. Bug Man took
    another sip of coffee. A soft knock at the door.
    “Yeah, George,” Bug Man yelled, “I’m getting up. Damn, give a
    brother a few minutes to—”
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    The door opened. It was not George, but a white woman. Medium-
    tall, slender, good-looking but sharp edged. Brunette.
    “Hello, Anthony. I’m sorry to barge in on you. But I have to get
    back to New York, so I don’t have a lot of time.”
    She sat down on the foot of the bed, a position that made Bug
    Man quite uncomfortable since under the blankets he wasn’t wearing
    anything. He was very conscious of his skinny chest and well-formed
    but not exactly muscular shoulders.
    “Who are you?”
    “My name is Lystra.”
    “You were the pathway.”
    She smiled. She tilted her head, looked closely at him, making eye
    contact, taking her time in responding. Smart , that’s what he thought
    of her on first impression. That she was smart. And not bad if you
    liked older women. And she was on his bed. . . .
    “I’m a lot of pathways,” Lystra said.
    “So, George said—”
    “Do you like George?” she asked.
    “Not really,” Bug Man said.
    “No, you wouldn’t. George isn’t really like us, is he?”
    “Like us?”
    “George is so serious. He never plays games. You and I, we like to
    play. We enjoy the game as a game .”
    “Do we know each other?” Bug Man asked. Alarm bells were
    going off in his head. He recalled George’s furtive eyes.
    “In a way. I’ve played you at different times in different games,
    yeah. I use several online identities. But you’re better than I am.
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    Quicker reaction time; very, very good at taking advantage of terrain.
    And an amazing three-dimensional