BZRK. Майкл Грант
had been the British prime minister. It had seemed right, what with Bug Man being British by birth.
But what had happened to the pathway? They’d had a clear one to the PM.
Anthony had been studying up on Prime Minister Bowen, looking through the man’s well-documented history, searching for the triggers he could pull in the old man’s brain. Oh, you like horses, do you, Mr Prime Minister? And you had a bad experience with your sister’s drowning? And your favorite chocolate bar is a Flake? All of that data was stored up in that wrinkly wad of goo called a brain.
A lot of wasted schoolwork, that, if someone else would be taking Bowen.
“What happened to the pathway?”
“As my brother mentioned, Vincent was in London.”
“It was not done at the nano,” Benjamin said, correctly guessing Bug Man’s thought. “Our friend Vincent did it the old-fashioned way. He stabbed her in the brain, Anthony. You should remember that. Because these are the lunatics we are fighting.” The Twins leaned forward, which put that third eye right up way too close, way too close, to the camera. The Bug Man leaned away.
“They are ruthless in a demonic cause,” Benjamin said, getting heated, getting worked up. “We would unite humanity! We would create the next human, the next step in evolution: a united human race! They fight to keep humanity enslaved to division, to hatred, to the loneliness of a false individuality.”
The sound of a fist pounding. The image wobbled.
“It begins as soon as you can come in,” Charles said. Calmer than his brother. “There’s a car waiting out front. You will come?” A simultaneous Twofer grin. “As a favor to us?”
“Yes, sirs,” he said. Because Bug Man didn’t want to try to guess what happened to people who refused to do “favors” for Twofer.
Bug Man emerged, serious and shaky, from behind the screen. Jessica was waiting.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’ve got to go. Big problem at work.”
Jessica pouted, and that was about enough to break Bug Man’s will, but no, he wasn’t ready to keep the Twins waiting.
“But I only need you for five minutes.”
The next five minutes, and all the rest of the conversation, was overheard by a single biot.
The biot—a specialized model adapted to picking up the kinds of large sound waves made by a vocal chord longer than their entire body—had spent six weeks inside Jessica’s right ear. Six weeks of earwax and near misses with Q-tips the size of blimps and earbuds blasting music that was sheer vibration.
Six weeks, weakening day by day, holding on despite everything, and now just days from death unless the biot could be taken out in a clean extraction.
In the coffee shop across the street Wilkes sat typing away on her laptop, pretending to be working on a novel, headphones on her ears.
Wilkes wasn’t the best twitcher—she wasn’t looking for a battle with Bug Man. But little Buggy hadn’t found her, had he? He had come close a few times, close enough that she could read the serial numbers of his nanobots and clearly see his creepy exploding head logo. But she had lain low. She had frozen in place. And the nanobots that might have killed her biot and driven Wilkes to madness had gone scurrying past.
Wilkes was not a great fighter down in the nano. She was much more capable in the macro, because when pushed, Wilkes was a little rage-o-holic. She affected a tough-girl style that wasn’t just style. She didn’t wear those big Doc Martens to look cool, she wore them to make her kicks count when she applied them.
Wilkes had a few interesting tattoos. Her right eye had dark flames painted downward, maybe more like shark’s teeth or the stylized teeth of a ripsaw. On the inside of her left arm she wore a QR-code tattoo. Shoot a picture of it with your phone and you’d be taken to a page that just had a picture of Wilkes’s raised middle finger and a circular logo that showed a Photoshopped pic of Wilkes stabbing a dragon in the eye.
There was a second QR-code tattoo in a, shall we say, less public location. It led to a different sort of page altogether.
She was a troubled teen, Wilkes was. Troubled, yes. And trouble, too.
But she could be patient when she had to be. Six weeks of this coffee shop, and a crappy little basement hole-in-the-wall apartment next door to Bug Man’s home.
In a weary voice Wilkes said, “Gotcha, Buggy. Got you good.”
ARTIFACT
To: Lear
From: Vincent
Summary:
Wilkes’s surveillance of Bug Man’s girlfriend has paid off.
1) Confirmed: Bug Man was the twitcher for the McLure hit.
2) Bug Man is being given a strategic as well as tactical role. This may indicate a serious problem with Burnofsky.
3) Confirmed: AFGC plans move at UN. POTUS is target #1. Other heads of state as well.
Recommend:
1) Given our need for biot resources, especially in view of the AFGC initiative and paralysis at McLure corporate, I recommend finalizing the Violet approach.
2) Accelerated training of new recruits.
Note: I am not Scipio.
SEVEN
Inside Sadie McLure’s head was a bubble. Sort of like a water balloon. Only it was the size of a grape and filled with blood.
It was thirty-three millimeters long, about an inch and a quarter. It was a brain aneurysm. Quite a large one. A place where an artery wall weakened and blood pressure formed the water balloon of death.
Because if it ever popped, blood would go gushing uncontrolled into the surrounding brain tissue. And Sadie would almost certainly die. And if not die, then lose parts of her brain, perhaps be left a vegetable.
There was an operation that could be done in some cases. But not in this case. Because the balloon inside Sadie’s head was buried down deep.
She had seen the CT scans, and the MRI scans, and even the fabulously detailed, nearly artistic digital subtraction angiography. That had involved shooting dye through an artery in her groin.
Ah, good times. Good times.
If she had stayed in the hospital, they’d have done a CT looking for bleeding. Then they’d have done an MRI to get a closer look at the aneurysm.
That’s when they would have noticed something unusual. A certain thickening of the tissue around the aneurysm.
So they’d have done the digital subtraction thing and then, yep, then they’d have had a pretty good picture of something that would make their hair stand up.
They’d have seen what looked like a pair of tiny little creatures, no bigger than dust mites, busily weaving and reweaving tiny strands of Teflon fiber to form a layer over the bulging, straining, grape-size water balloon.
They’d have seen Grey McLure’s biots, busy at the job of keeping his daughter alive.
Sadie could see them now as Dr Chattopadhyay—Dr Chat to her patient—swiveled the screen to show her.
“There are the biots in the first image.” She tapped the keyboard to change pictures. “And here they are half an hour later.”
“They haven’t moved.”
“Yes, they are immobile. Presumably dead.” Dr Chat was in her fifties, heavy, dark-skinned, skeptical of eye and immaculate in her lab coat over sari. “You know of course that I and my whole