BZRK: Reloaded (BZRK 2)

Nijinsky went paler still. Plath carefully avoided making eye contact with him.

“Shane Hwang,” Burnofsky said grandly. “Nijinsky. Of course we know who you are, you’re on posters all over Manhattan, although you do look different with clothing on. Your father disowned you after he found you bent over his kitchen counter …entertaining …the cable installer. Oh, we know all about you, Nijinsky. We could have taken you out at any time, but why bother, eh?”

Wilkes sighed theatrically and picked up the brick.

“Go ahead! Beat me! Show me your moral superiority; show me what you’re fighting for.”

Wilkes hesitated.

Nijinsky, his voice straining to remain calm, said, “He doesn’t know who you are, Wilkes. Or Keats. Doesn’t know Billy, I’m guessing. He’s bluffing. Pretending to know more than he does.”

“I know what they are,” Burnofsky shot back. “The losers. The damaged. The victims. Life’s little rejects, all except Sadie McLure of course, no, she’s the rich daughter of privilege out for revenge.” He shook his head. “Every war in history was fought by the cannon fodder. All for the benefit of someone who stayed safe and above it all. They get you into the fight with high-flown rhetoric, and then they blood you, don’t they? They make sure you’ve seen a friend’s blood and drawn blood from an enemy. You’re pushed into their fight but now you’ve lost people, so now it’s personal. Now it’s too late to get out because you’ve done things …unimaginable things.”

Nijinsky jerked almost violently.

Burnofsky didn’t seem to notice. He was on a roll. “You’ve been hurt, so now, by God, it’s your fight. Yours. Oldest game in history: idealists and patriots turned into vengeful killers. Somewhere, Lear is laughing.”

As if on cue a terrible moan came from Vincent, whom Anya had drawn away into a far corner of the church. It was a moan that rose higher and higher before suddenly falling off a cliff and tumbling down in manic laughter.

“Your friend’s meds are wearing off,” Burnofsky said.

Keats picked up the vodka bottle and held it close to Burnofsky’s ruined mouth. As if he was going to pour. A ragged need transformed Burnofsky’s face.

“I believe your meds are wearing off as well,” Keats said, and set the bottle back down again.

Minako McGrath had screamed.

She had not fainted, but as she screamed something had hit her in

the back of her head, and that buckled her knees.

No one had warned her, no one had told her that the fanciful,

mythological painting on the ceiling of the dome was of a real person.

People.

It had simply been too much. She was not so delicate as all that, she had seen many people with deformities and she had never felt anything but compassion for them. And maybe, no certainly, she would come to feel that same compassion for these unfortunates. Except that these were no helpless beggars. These were the Great Souls, the ringmasters of this floating asylum, the bastards who had

kidnapped her.

She lay in her quarters. There was a bruise on the back of her

head. Someone had brought her here, someone had smeared antibiotic ointment on the back of her head, matting her hair.

She sat up. The headache was an explosion in her skull. There was singing, loud and not very good.

One mind.

Two great guides. No more war.

No more hate. It’s never too late.

Minako did not recognize the tune. She stood up and fought down a wave of nausea that almost did make her faint.

She went to the door. It was locked. She could see out into the sphere, but the door was locked. The railings were crowded with singing, banner-waving people. Through the gaps she could see that the floor of the sphere was crowded with ecstatically happy celebrants. It was all like some weird melding of rock concert, celebrity red carpet, and political rally.

The monsters were still in the elevator cage, which had come to rest just a few feet above the crowd. People reached out to touch them, tried to push their fingers through the wire. Like teenage fans with a pop star.