BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

So, Benjamin thought. Perhaps he sees at last.

“You were too softhearted, Charles. Always. You thought you could improve them, as we did on the Doll Ship, and yes, it was a magnificent dream, brother. But we now face Sodom and Gomorrah, and no righteous man is to be found to justify their salvation.”

The silence that followed was long.

“What,” Charles asked finally, sounding exhausted, “would you have us do?”

“We tried to gently show the world the error of its ways,” Benjamin said. “We tried the carrot. Now comes the stick. Now comes judgment. Now comes righteous wrath, brother. Or do we wait for our chance to star in their freak show?”

“No,” Charles whispered. Then louder. “No, by God. Now comes Judgment Day. We hit them. We hit them so hard they can’t stand up. And then we show them that we have worse still in store unless they submit.”

Benjamin smiled. The doorbell sounded. “That would be the good Dr. Burnofsky.”

In Rome, the Pope was working his way methodically through his daily audiences. He was a humble man despite the pomp of his ancient office, and he still, after many years in the job, felt a bit put off by the need to play the kingly role.

First up there was the priest who had defied death threats to keep an inoculation program going in narco country. The priest was young and cocky and brave and offered to shake the Holy Father’s hand rather than kiss his ring.

Then the two Little Sisters of the Poor, one of whom had been attacked on a mission in Burma. The Pope rose from his seat to embrace them each in turn and to whisper words of encouragement. They left with tears streaming down their faces.

Then the usual collection of businesspeople and media people, all of which would culminate in the Pope getting to meet a famously good-looking actor to thank him for his charitable work. As far as the Holy Father knew the actor was not a Catholic, but he 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 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 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.