wasn’t it?” Nijinsky said.
Plath didn’t say anything to that, because she’d had the same
thought. Convenient . If you wanted to push her and Keats back to
New York. Say, after you’d ignored an order to get your ass back there
already.
The punishment for desertion is death, isn’t it? Or is that some
Hollywood bullshit?
The boat had blown up, but there was no follow-up. No attack
on the beach, no attack on the compound they’d been staying in. No
attack as they rushed to the airport and flew away from the island.
No attack waiting for them when they refueled in Kenya or
Madeira, and no attack when they’d landed at Teterboro.
Had a quick change of hair color somehow thrown off the kind of
people capable of tracking her to Madagascar and then to Île Sainte-
Marie? Not likely.
Just enough violence to send her running back to New York. Not
as if someone was serious about killing her.
Like someone wanted her back in the game.
56
BZRK APOCALYPSE
Get back in the game.
That had been the text from Lear. The one she’d ignored, because,
why? Because she was Sadie McLure, that’s why. Since when did she
take orders? What was she, someone’s butler suddenly? Fuck you,
Lear. I’m on a beautiful island with a beautiful boy who loves me and
wears himself out trying to please me.
For the first twenty-four hours after that she had felt liberated.
Like maybe she had regained control of her life. But slowly her doubts
had grown. What right did she have to blow off Lear? Lear was BZRK.
Lear was the general, and she was a lowly lieutenant or whatever.
And he’d been right, hadn’t he, Lear? Right that she had to get
back in the game? The Armstrong Twins seemingly still lived. The
nanobot technology still existed. The liberty of all humanity was still
in danger.
The Armstrongs still had to be stopped. Didn’t they?
“I’ve heard from Lear,” Plath said. She wasn’t sure why, but she
was reluctant to tell them. Maybe because once she said it she would
have to take action.
“Did he mention whether he liked the whole blonde look you
have going on?” Wilkes. Of course.
“Lear says the Armstrongs have developed some kind of remote
biot killer. Nature unknown. No other details. But . . .” She shook
her head ruefully. “But his instructions are to destroy AFGC. Destroy
their data in particular so this new technology doesn’t go into use.”
Long silence. Much mute staring. Biots already faced a number
of potential enemies, from the slow but irritating defenses of the body
itself to the much more dangerous nanobots. But nanobots could be
57
MICHAEL GRANT
faced, fought, and, with luck and skill, killed. The idea of a weapon
that could kill in some unfathomable way, in some way that did not
even allow for a fight, was terrifying. It would be push-button mad-
ness.
Finally, Nijinsky laughed, a low, slow sound weighed down by
cynicism. “Well, I’m going to use that word again. Convenient. We’re
all sitting here wondering why we’re still playing this game, and what
do you know? Turns out the bad guys have the means to drive us all
insane and then enslave the human race.” He lit a second cigarette
and blew the smoke insolently at Plath.
She thought about telling Nijinsky to put it out. Show him that
she was back and in charge.
But was she in charge? That was not clear.
She checked Keats. He was as dubious as Nijinsky.
“Yeah,” she said by way of acknowledging their doubts. “Yeah.
Convenient. But I guess unless we want a visit from Caligula, we’d
better . . .” She faded out, realizing what she was saying.
It was Anya who put it into words. “In the Great Patriotic War—
what you call World War Two—Russians had soldiers. And behind
the soldiers they had NKVD. Secret police. If a soldier complained,
the NKVD shot him. If a soldier failed, the NKVD shot him. If a sol-
dier said, ‘To hell with this, I am going home,’ the NKVD shot him.
And
Plath didn’t say anything to that, because she’d had the same
thought. Convenient . If you wanted to push her and Keats back to
New York. Say, after you’d ignored an order to get your ass back there
already.
The punishment for desertion is death, isn’t it? Or is that some
Hollywood bullshit?
The boat had blown up, but there was no follow-up. No attack
on the beach, no attack on the compound they’d been staying in. No
attack as they rushed to the airport and flew away from the island.
No attack waiting for them when they refueled in Kenya or
Madeira, and no attack when they’d landed at Teterboro.
Had a quick change of hair color somehow thrown off the kind of
people capable of tracking her to Madagascar and then to Île Sainte-
Marie? Not likely.
Just enough violence to send her running back to New York. Not
as if someone was serious about killing her.
Like someone wanted her back in the game.
56
BZRK APOCALYPSE
Get back in the game.
That had been the text from Lear. The one she’d ignored, because,
why? Because she was Sadie McLure, that’s why. Since when did she
take orders? What was she, someone’s butler suddenly? Fuck you,
Lear. I’m on a beautiful island with a beautiful boy who loves me and
wears himself out trying to please me.
For the first twenty-four hours after that she had felt liberated.
Like maybe she had regained control of her life. But slowly her doubts
had grown. What right did she have to blow off Lear? Lear was BZRK.
Lear was the general, and she was a lowly lieutenant or whatever.
And he’d been right, hadn’t he, Lear? Right that she had to get
back in the game? The Armstrong Twins seemingly still lived. The
nanobot technology still existed. The liberty of all humanity was still
in danger.
The Armstrongs still had to be stopped. Didn’t they?
“I’ve heard from Lear,” Plath said. She wasn’t sure why, but she
was reluctant to tell them. Maybe because once she said it she would
have to take action.
“Did he mention whether he liked the whole blonde look you
have going on?” Wilkes. Of course.
“Lear says the Armstrongs have developed some kind of remote
biot killer. Nature unknown. No other details. But . . .” She shook
her head ruefully. “But his instructions are to destroy AFGC. Destroy
their data in particular so this new technology doesn’t go into use.”
Long silence. Much mute staring. Biots already faced a number
of potential enemies, from the slow but irritating defenses of the body
itself to the much more dangerous nanobots. But nanobots could be
57
MICHAEL GRANT
faced, fought, and, with luck and skill, killed. The idea of a weapon
that could kill in some unfathomable way, in some way that did not
even allow for a fight, was terrifying. It would be push-button mad-
ness.
Finally, Nijinsky laughed, a low, slow sound weighed down by
cynicism. “Well, I’m going to use that word again. Convenient. We’re
all sitting here wondering why we’re still playing this game, and what
do you know? Turns out the bad guys have the means to drive us all
insane and then enslave the human race.” He lit a second cigarette
and blew the smoke insolently at Plath.
She thought about telling Nijinsky to put it out. Show him that
she was back and in charge.
But was she in charge? That was not clear.
She checked Keats. He was as dubious as Nijinsky.
“Yeah,” she said by way of acknowledging their doubts. “Yeah.
Convenient. But I guess unless we want a visit from Caligula, we’d
better . . .” She faded out, realizing what she was saying.
It was Anya who put it into words. “In the Great Patriotic War—
what you call World War Two—Russians had soldiers. And behind
the soldiers they had NKVD. Secret police. If a soldier complained,
the NKVD shot him. If a soldier failed, the NKVD shot him. If a sol-
dier said, ‘To hell with this, I am going home,’ the NKVD shot him.
And
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