Bzrk Apocalypse by Michael Grant Read Free Book Online Page B

Washington cell of BZRK. Shot his
    way out, and then shot his way back in to finish off any Armstrong
    survivors.
    Keats. The working-class London boy with impressive gaming
    skills and too-blue eyes. And a very nice, taut body, not that Plath
    should have been thinking about that at the moment. But she was;
    in fact, she was recalling a specific moment on the island, standing
    at the railing of their deck, watching the sun come up, Noah as he
    was then, behind her, his strong arm around her waist, drawing his
    forearm over her body, over her breasts, kissing the nape of her neck.
    She took a breath. It was deeper and noisier than she’d intended,
    and she wondered if people guessed that she’d been daydreaming.
    Finally, of course, there was Vincent himself. Vincent had
    brought Sadie into BZRK. He had basically created Plath. He’d been
    their fearless leader until he had lost a biot in a battle with Bug Man.
    To lose a biot was to lose your mind.
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    MICHAEL GRANT
    The biot–human link was still not understood. The mechanism
    that allowed the human “parent” to see through biot eyes, to move
    biot limbs, and to be so intimately connected with them that losing a
    biot was like some kind of psychic lobotomy—that mechanism, that
    force , was not understood. In fact, it had been a complete surprise
    when first discovered at McLure Labs by Plath’s father, Grey McLure,
    and had remained a mystery to him to the day he had been murdered
    in spectacular fashion.
    The effects of the brain–biot connection were plain to see. Vin-
    cent, who had once been so dead calm, so in control, had fallen into
    madness. And the only way to save him had been with crude inter-
    vention down in the folds of his brain.
    Plath herself had done the job. She had delivered acid to sites in
    Vincent’s brain that stored specific memories of his dead biot. She
    had watched through her own biot eyes as Vincent’s brain cells burst
    and boiled and died, erasing memory, thoughts, ideas, and perhaps
    some piece of his personality.
    After that Vincent had clawed his way back from madness. He
    had gone back into battle against Bug Man, and he’d won. But that
    did not mean Vincent was back .
    “Okay,” Plath said. “It’s been a month. Things have calmed down
    a bit. Where do we stand?” When no one volunteered an answer, she
    nodded and said, “Jin?”
    Nijinsky turned cold eyes up to her. He had not fared well in the
    last month. While Keats and Plath were both tanned and rested—
    well, as rested as they could be, given the fact that their boat had been
    blown up—Nijinsky had become increasingly frayed and ragged. His
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    BZRK APOCALYPSE
    clothing was no longer perfect. His hair was at least two weeks past
    its optimum. He was still by any normal standard a spectacularly
    handsome, well-turned-out person, a tall Chinese American with a
    graceful way of moving and a sad, sympathetic smile.
    The changes would be visible only to someone familiar with his
    previous level of perfection. But the signs were there, even more vis-
    ible in the red-rimmed eyes, the stress lines above the bridge of his
    nose, the grim tightening around his mouth. And of course the sour
    smell of a body oozing alcohol residue through its pores.
    “It’s been a busy month,” Nijinsky said. “Sorry you two missed it.”
    “Lear agreed I should disappear for a while,” Plath said calmly.
    “I’m known.”
    “Yes. And Lear agreed that I should get stuck with the shit work.”
    He shrugged and tried on an insincere smile. “Well, here’s where we
    stand. Vincent is about seventy percent.” He looked at Vincent and
    asked, “Fair?”
    Vincent nodded. His cold gray eyes focused, then lost focus.
    “Fair.”
    “Billy is thoroughly qualified for missions down in the meat. He
    has two biots. Wilkes is still Wilkes, God help us all.” This he said
    with a certain wry tone that was very much the old Nijinsky.
    “What else could I be?” Wilkes asked,