BZRK - Майкл Грант BZRK

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This was not what he did.

      A beam weapon cut one of his six legs. The cut didn’t go all the way through, but it snapped off. It wouldn’t slow him much, but it would throw off the biot’s equilibrium.

      This was not the time to stay and play smack-the-nanobot and maybe lose. It was time for extraction, and as quickly as possible.

      Carthage. The Roman Empire’s great enemy. Until the Romans conquered it; murdered or enslaved every man, woman, and child; burned every building to the ground; then sowed the earth with salt so that nothing would ever grow there again.

      Carthago delenda est. It had been a slogan in Rome: Carthage must be destroyed.

      Vincent wiped his mouth with his napkin.

      He pushed back his chair.

      V2 turned and ran from the four near and many farther-off nanobots. More were scurrying down the optic nerve. They weren’t a problem: using their four legs, the nanobots were slower than a biot. Only when they had a fairly smooth surface could the nanobots switch to their single wheel and outrun a biot.

      Unfortunately the eyeball was perhaps the ultimate smooth surface.

      V2 motored its legs at full speed. Back around the eyeball.

      Vincent made his way slowly across the room toward Liselotte Osborne.

      V2 waited until two of the nanobots were close enough to open fire. Their fléchettes ate a second leg away.

      Vincent felt the echo of the pain in his own leg.

      V2 sprayed sulfuric acid to left and right simultaneously. It wouldn’t kill the nanobots, but it would slow them, bog them down in puddles of melting flesh. And even on just four legs and dragging stumps he could maybe outrun the remaining nanobots.

      Liselotte Osborne cried out suddenly.

      “Oh! Oh!”

      She pressed fingers over her eye.

      “What is it?” one of the men asked, alarmed.

      V2 was nearly crushed by the pressure, but Osborne’s fingers were to the north of it now, blocking the nanobots, and V2 had a clear path ahead.

      “My eye! Something is in my eye. It’s rather painful.”

      Vincent moved smoothly forward. “I’m a doctor; it could be a stroke. We need to lay this woman down.”

      Funny how effective the phrase “I’m a doctor” can be.

      Vincent eased Osborne from her chair and laid her flat on her back. He crouched over her, pushed her hand gently away from her face, and touched the surface of her eye with his finger.

      Through V2’s optics he saw the massive wall of ridged flesh descending from the sky and ran to meet it.

      Vincent’s free hand went into his pocket and came out, unnoticed, holding something black that might have been an expensive pen. He pressed the end of it against the base of Osborne’s skull.

      V2 leapt onto the finger just as two nanobots emerged in the clear from the acid cloud.

      Vincent pressed the clip on the pen and springs pushed three inches of tungsten-steel blade into Osborne’s medulla.

      Vincent gave the blade a half-twist then pressed the clip again and withdrew what looked for all the world exactly like a nice Mont Blanc.

      “This woman needs help,” Vincent said.

      V2 ran up the length of his finger and dug barbs into his flesh.

      Vincent stood up abruptly. “I’m going to summon an ambulance.” He turned and walked toward the exit.

      It would be ten minutes before Liselotte Osborne’s friends and coworkers realized the doctor had not summoned anyone or anything at all. And by then the pool of blood beneath her head had grown quite large, and she was no longer complaining of pain in her eye.

       SIX

      Vincent was already in the air on his way back to the States, Nijinsky was relaxing with a drink at his London hotel and betting that Noah would show up for testing the next day, and Burnofsky was halfway through a bottle of vodka and thinking about his pipe, by the time Bug Man arrived home and found Jessica waiting for him.

      She was standing three steps up on the stoop, bouncing a little to keep warm. She was two years older than he was, eighteen, from one of those North African countries, Ethiopia or Somalia, he could never remember which.

      She had possibly the longest legs he had ever seen. She was taller than he was. And all parts of her were perfect. Crazy full lips and big, light brown eyes, and skin like warm silk, and hair in sort of loose, curly dreads that dangled down over her forehead and tickled Bug Man’s face when she was on top and kissing him.

      “Hi, babe,” Bug Man said. “You must be freezing.”

      “You’ll warm me up,” she teased, stepped down the stairs and held her arms open for him.

      A kiss. A really good kiss, with steam coming from their lips and all her body heat transferring straight to his body, warming him through and through.

      “You could have gone in to wait for me,” he said.

      “Your mother doesn’t like me much,” Jessica said, not complaining.

      He shrugged.

      The Bug Man lived with his mother and her sister, Aunt Benicia, in Park Slope, up closer to Flatbush. The neighborhood was mostly white, well-off, infested by people in what was left of the publishing business. Writers and editors and so on. People who would go out of their way to smile at the black teenager with the strangely Asian eyes and the wide smile. They wanted him to know he was welcome. Despite, you know, being a black teenager in an upscale white neighborhood.

      Bug Man didn’t live in one of the three-story townhomes the latte creatures spent small fortunes decorating. He and his little family had a nice three-bedroom, second floor, with too few windows and an inconvenient single bathroom. They’d lived there since moving to the States from London eight years ago. After Bug Man’s father had died of a stroke.

      Aunt Benicia had some style, and Bug Man’s mother, Vallie Elder, had been careful investing the money from his father’s life insurance. And of course Bug Man kicked in a bit from his well-paying job in the city.

      He was a video-game tester for the Armstrong Fancy Gifts Corporation. That’s what he told people. And how was anyone to know any different? Armstrong Fancy Gifts Corporation, you could Google it. They’d been in business since, like, the Civil War. You could go into one of their stores in malls or airport shopping areas. Bug Man could point out some of the games he had tested. There they were in the store or on the Web site.

      Bug Man led Jessica inside. “It’s me,” he yelled. Preoccupied, his mother called back something from the direction of the kitchen. If Aunt Benicia was home, she said nothing.

      “You want anything to eat?” Bug Man asked.

      “Mmm-hmm,” Jessica said, breathing into his neck.

      Oh yeah, that worked for Bug Man. That still made his heart miss a couple of beats. It had been a lot of complicated spinner work, hundreds of hours twitching his spinner-bots, identifying and cauterizing her inhibition centers. And then implanting images of the Bug Man in her visual memory and tying them with wire or pulse transmitters to her pleasure centers.

      Exhausting work, since he had had to do it all on his own time. But so worth it. The girl was his. If Bug Man was honest, he’d admit he was maybe a six or seven on the looks scale. Jessica was off the scale. People on the street would see them together, and their jaws would drop and they’d get that “Life isn’t fair,” look, or maybe begin to form that “Man, what has that guy got going on?” question.

      That was why his mum didn’t really like Jessica.

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