BZRK: Apocalypse
Page 25

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 listening? 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 accomplished was to turn Burnofsky—for now at least—away from the bottle 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 watchful 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 century, 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 grieving. 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.
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 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 a preprogrammed attack?” Burnofsky asked cautiously.
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 earlier called his gilded cage.
No, by being rage-filled lunatics, Burnofsky thought. And by having 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 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.