BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

The answer was no. He would not finish this cigarette by putting it out in the ashtray.

He took one long, final pull on the cigarette butt—it was down to the last inch—lifted his shirt, and stabbed it into his stomach.

The pain was staggering. The smell of burned flesh was like opium, somehow, a narcotic that turned the pain into a dream, a swirling unreality.

And most of all, it took his mind off Carla. Because despite all of Nijinsky’s careful work, Burnofsky felt that if he had to endure that horror-excitement one more time, he would find his gun and finally do it.

The HNDS—hover-capable nanobot deployment system—or “Hounds” were roughly triangular in shape and no bigger than a paper airplane.

The original drone architecture was under development for the U.S. military and the CIA. Stealthy, relatively quiet, wonderfully maneuverable, their only real drawback was that their range was limited to twenty miles. The military wanted a seventy-five-mile range, and the CIA weren’t interested unless they could be flown at distances up to five hundred miles.

So the drones—once designated the hover-capable surveillance system (HOSS)—had been repurposed. Twenty miles might not quite be the thing for the soldiers or the spies, but it was perfectly adequate for use in massed preprogrammed attack by nanobots.

The Hounds came for Mr. Stern as he was picking up his morning bagel at Montague Street Bagels in Brooklyn. It was a short walk from his home, and the McLure Security car and driver would be waiting across the street.

There were twenty thousand self-replicating nanobots aboard the Hound piloted remotely by a tech in the bowels of the Tulip. The Twins watched on their eternal monitor. The nanobots themselves were of course not twitcher run. They had been programmed by the Twins via the app. These nanobots had been given a simple set of instructions: to multiply as soon as they encountered a source of carbon. To continue to do so for exactly forty minutes. Then to commit mechanical suicide and stop.

As Stern was crossing the sidewalk the Hound swept down Henry Street before executing a sharp right onto Montague.

Stern bit into his bagel. The cream cheese oozed from the sides and he licked a dollop before it could fall away.

And then he heard something strange. Like a ceiling fan, but with blades goi

ng very fast. He even felt the downdraft and looked up to see its source. The Hound was just six feet over his head.

The nanobots fell in a cloud, like dust.

Stern ran to the car, still clutching the bagel. The driver saw him, started to jump out to open the door for him, then saw the urgency on Stern’s face, so just released the lock and started the engine.

Stern reached the door just as he began to feel a burning sensation on his scalp.

He piled into the car and yelled, “Some kind of drone!”

The driver turned around and blanched visibly. “Jesus, boss! Your head!”

Stern reached past the driver and yanked down the visor mirror. In the narrow rectangle he saw that his scalp was red with blood.

“Drive!” Stern shouted. “To McLure Labs!”

“What’s happening?” the driver cried.

Stern tried to answer, but at that moment the nanobots had chewed through his cheek and were tearing into his molars, and the sound that came out of the security man was not decipherable as anything but a cry of agony.

The driver yanked the car into traffic, leaned on the horn, and forced his way past a parked UPS truck.

SEVENTEEN

Caligula found himself almost nervous. How strange. Plath was just a girl, after all.

He remembered the first time he had really met her, in a small but vicious battle at the Tulip. He’d liked her. He’d thought he saw some inner strength in her, but it had never occurred to him that she would end up running the New York cell of BZRK. Vincent had seemed bulletproof—an odd concept for Caligula to think of. But Vincent really had seemed indestructible.

For a while after Nijinsky’s fall from grace Caligula thought Lear might place the burden of leadership on him. But no. Of course not. Caligula had his purpose in life, and it was not shepherding a gaggle of kids. He was useful to Lear, but only as a killer. And less and less useful at that. Lear had found other ways.

Nijinsky, poor bastard. A clean bullet would have done the job. No need for what he endured. No need for that cruelty.

He wondered what Plath would ask of him. Would she ask for his help in bringing Burnofsky in so that he could be infested with a new biot?

He hoped she would not ask him about Lear.