BZRK

filled the air. Anya Violet was crawling through blood.
    Then, in the doorway, a man.
    He was smallish, maybe five feet eight. He was stocky but not fat, and dressed with great care in a deep-purple velvet blazer, collared shirt, sage slacks, black leather boots. On his head was a top hat. The hat was a sort of faded version of the blazer, with a wide gold band and a jaunty feather.
    He was craggy, tan, sardonic, and amused, and his eyes were black at the bottom of deep valleys. He might be forty or he might be sixty, and he carried something with him, a feeling, an aura, a dark truth that swirled, invisible but felt, and undeniable.
    Sadie knew without being told.
    Caligula.

FIFTEEN
    He had a pistol in his left hand. In his right was a short-handled axe. The axe looked strangely like a child’s notion of a Native American tomahawk: it had a painted handle with what looked like leather strands hanging from it. The blade was liquid red.
    There were three surviving TFDs when Caligula walked in.
    The first spun, raised his weapon, and fell backward with a hole through his forehead. The sound came afterward. A huge bang.
    A second AFGC man had a bullet through his windpipe and the third, attempting a belated and futile escape, stopped when the axe appeared as if by magic in his back. The down and nylon poofed out around it.
    Caligula stood in front of Anya so she couldn’t crawl any farther.
    “No,” Vincent gasped. “Not her.”
    Caligula looked around and said, “Anyone else?” He pushed Anya with his foot so that she fell onto her side.
    He went to look down at Renfield. “Shame,” Caligula said. “I liked him.”
    He pulled the axe from the spine of the gibbering, terrified TFD whose legs had stopped working altogether. And shot the man in the head.
    Then with four powerful chops he hacked through Renfield’s neck. No evidence of biots could be left behind.
    Plath would have thrown up again, but her belly was empty. Caligula pulled a black plastic trash bag from his pocket, dropped Renfield’s head into it, tied it off, and handed it to Keats. “Carry this. Don’t drop it.”
    “What the hell—” Keats demanded.
    Caligula looked at him with amused disbelief. “New kid, huh? Well, new kid, you don’t question the man who’s saving your life.” Caligula knelt in front of Vincent. “What’s with you?”
    “Two in her head.” He indicated Anya Violet. “Ambush. I’m in trouble. Renfield . . .”
    “Renfield won’t be helping,” Caligula said. He stood up, turned now to Plath, looked at the crotch-shot man, still moaning in terrible pain. “Never aim for the balls. Aim for the center of mass. Unless you ever get good enough for head shots.”
    “I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to, to aim there, I just . . .”
    “Well, you might as well finish him off.”
    Plath shook her head violently. She held the gun away from her as if she would drop it on the floor. But she didn’t drop it. Instead her gaze was drawn to it, she held it up and looked at it.
    Caligula laughed. “They are seductive, aren’t they?” Without needing to look he pointed his gun at the injured man and fired once. “See? There you go. You can tell yourself it wasn’t you that killed him.”
    Caligula went around the smoky room picking up loose firearms. He checked each one, popped an empty clip and found a replacement inside blood-soaked clothing.
    He handed one handgun to Keats and the other to Vincent.
    “We’re probably going to have a bit of a fighting withdrawal here,” Caligula said, kneeling now to look at Anya. “Now, listen to me, whoever the hell you are. Vincent over there doesn’t want me to kill you. But if I have the slightest trouble with you—any trouble at all—I will ignore young Vincent and shoot you. I don’t know if you’ve been wired or not. If so, it’s going to take all your focus and concentration. Try. Try very hard.”
    He stood up, wiped his bloody axe on a body, and said, “All right then. Follow me.”
    *
    The elevator was playing a cover of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.”
    The buttons were bright. The walls were mirrored. Plath saw herself. Pale. Freckles on the bridge of her nose. Hair matted with sweat.
    It was Keats and her. Caligula had summoned the first elevator and boarded with Vincent and Anya. “You two come out ready for a fight,” he’d advised them. “And listen: don’t accidentally shoot me. Right? I will resent it.”
    It had taken a while for a second