BZRK (BZRK 1)

The thing with Sadie was that even though she was no sort of snob, not arrogant toward other people, she had lived a life with very little discomfort. What unpleasantness she’d had to endure had been of a medical nature—the diagnosis and early attempts at treatment for her aneurysm—which just doubled her impatie

nce now. Because everything about this felt medical in a sort of alien-abduction way.

Finally the white light returned. She flinched.

“Sorry, I should have brought the lights up slowly.”

“What now?”

A door opened. A young woman stepped in. She was in her early twenties. She had black hair, long, but drawn back into an interesting knot before continuing on down her back. Her skin was dark but not from the African sun. She wore what looked like a very tiny sapphire brooch between her eyes, not a piercing but an appliqué. She had pretty eyes, but otherwise she was plain. She was carrying a handled shopping bag. She held it out to Sadie.

“Your clothing. Be careful, some of it may be hot. I microwaved it. You can get dressed now.”

Ophelia. Sadie recognized the name from somewhere. Something fictional. Classical, not modern. It was just out of her grasp but she’d Google it later.

“Microwaved?”

“Microwaves aren’t as much use against biots, like those I know you’re familiar with. But nanobots contain tiny amounts of metal, and that makes them vulnerable to a good, old-fashioned microwave oven.”

Sadie began pulling on her clothing. “Nanobots?”

Ophelia smiled. That made her prettier. It was one of those “light up the room” smiles. Sadie wished she could do that. “I’ve been given the job of prepping you. So I’ll answer everything. Except of course about anything personal.”

“Shakespeare. That’s where Ophelia comes from.” Sadie squirmed into her bra.

“Yes.” Ophelia nodded. “From Hamlet. His crazy girlfriend.” The smile went away. “I’m sorry about your father and brother.”

“Yep,” Sadie said curtly. Enough condolences.

“Nanobots,” Ophelia said. “There are two branches of nanotechnology: the biological and the mechanical. Coffee?”

Sadie was dressed. “I guess a Scotch would be out of the question?”

A different smile appeared, not the room-lighting one, a more quizzical, challenging one. Ophelia could do a lot with a smile.

“Sorry. Yeah. I’m under age,” Sadie admitted.

Again a new smile, this one sad, worried. “There are no children or adults with us. But I don’t think we have any Scotch.”

Sadie said, “It was my dad’s thing. Scotch. He said it helped him to stop thinking at the end of the day. Once I came into his libratory— that was his made-up name for it because it was books and a microscope and …” She stopped talking.

Right into it; she had walked into remembering and feeling, and the goddamned tears were coming. Do not remember all of that, she told herself. Do not remember Dad in his ridiculous libratory, kicked back in his ancient leather chair with his feet up and a crystal tumbler in his hand, frowning up at his dusty old chalkboard covered in incomprehensible scribbles.

She would interrupt his concentration. To play the piano, which was also in the libratory. Or to show him a drawing. Or just to stand there because if she did, he would grab her and there would be a mock-ferocious struggle and she would end up letting him hug her.

Splattered into the concrete at the stadium. Burned in a greasy fire. And Stone with him. Her decent, funny, gentle brother.

“Coffee would be good,” Sadie said.

Ophelia led the way to a kitchen. It was clearly a kitchen without a housewife or househusband. It was the kitchen of indifferent individuals who parked their tea or cookies or chips here or there. The coffee machine had a full pot, but no one had scrubbed that glass pot out probably since the day it was first purchased.

They sat at a round table. Sadie took her coffee black. Ophelia with milk and sugar. The mugs were anonymous. The coffee was bitter.

“It’s called a bindi,” Ophelia said. “The thing you’re staring at.”

“Okay,” Sadie said. No point denying that she had been staring at the jewels that sparkled from Ophelia’s forehead. “From India, right?”

“Yes. It’s somewhere between a tradition and a fashion statement. It was a gift.”