She wasn’t thinking about Nijinsky. She was thinking about Vincent. She glanced nervously toward the stairs leading up to his room, then tried to cover the telltale gesture with a reach toward Wilkes’s chips.

“New biots,” Plath mused.

“Just totally lost his shit.” Wilkes spoke around the crunching of a corn chip.

“Who could make a biot for him?” Keats asked. “It takes a tissue sample and the equipment.” He didn’t mean to single Anya out by looking at her, but she was the only one in the room with the skills, and she controlled the equipment that had been hidden in the basement of the safe house.

“It takes a tissue sample, the equipment, and the skills,” Anya said. Then, angrily, “Why would I do that to Nijinsky?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Everyone knew the answer. Anya sighed. “Yes, I disliked him. But I would never do this.”

That earned her carefully blank looks.

“No, you listen to me, all of you. I would never. I did never. I did not do this.”

All eyes were on her.

“No!” Anya cried. “No, do not do this! Suspicion will destroy us.”

“What ‘us’?” Wilkes asked. “Look at us. Ophelia’s dead. Renfield. Vincent’s out of it. Now Jin. Fucking Jin, man.” She laughed her weird heh-heh-heh laugh and looked ready to cry. “We’re a fucking joke.”

“We stopped the Armstrongs,” Keats said reasonably. “We accomplished a lot. More than we should have been able to.”

Anya ignored him and instead pleaded with Plath. “Plath, you know I didn’t do this. Look at me. I did not hurt Nijinsky.”

Plath wanted to say something reassuring. But she couldn’t quite get the words to come out. If not Anya, then who? Someone at McLure Labs? But how many people there even knew of the existence of biots? And of those, how many could make one? And of those, how many would use the knowledge to kill Nijinsky? Was Anya a traitor?

“I know what you are thinking.” Anya’s Russian accent was coming to the fore. The word came out thinkink. “You are wrong.” Wronk. “It was someone else. Why would [vwould] I …? For what reason?”

Keats said, “No one suspects you, Anya. I don’t, at least. But the thing is, who else then? Not you, okay. But who?”

“I don’t know,” Anya pleaded. “I can think of only three others at McLure Labs with the knowledge and the access to equipment. But how would they have a tissue sample from Nijinsky?”

“He’s dead now, can we call him by his real name? Shane Hwang. Not some dead, crazy Russian ballet dancer.” This from Wilkes. She punched the bag of chips and sent crumbs flying. “His name was Shane fucking Hwang. I never even knew Ophelia’s real name. And poor old Renfield. And when I’m dead or crazy, you people won’t know me, either.” The flame tattoo under her eye looked like extravagant tears. “Jesus, no one will even know me.”

“Okay,” Plath said, bringing silence. “I believe you, Anya. I think … I mean, I choose to think … that this is the remote biot-killer technology that Lear was talking about. Which means we are all in danger. But still, Anya, I—we—need to be able to watch you.” Plath put a finger to her eye. It looked like a gesture, some kind of evil-eye, maledictory gesture. But in fact Plath had sent one of her biots racing around her own eyeball to clamber over lashes and reach the cheek.

Through her biot’s eyes she could see the vast column of flesh descending like some cylindrical meteor from the sky to press a giant furrowed fingertip within a few seconds’ walk.

Her biot ran beneath the vast curve, ran on until fingertip and depressed cheek met, then clambered upside down onto the finger.

“No,” Anya said. “No. Nyet. Is not happening.”

“I promise you, Anya, I won’t lay any wire. I will not make any changes in your brain.”

“Your promise,” Anya sneered.

“Yes, my promise,” Plath said. “I can’t just let you walk away. I have to maintain surveillance.” She leaned toward Anya and stretched a finger up to the older woman’s eye.

Anya swallowed in a dry throat. “So you will watch me. You will tap into my eye and see everything that I see.”

“It’s the only way,” Keats said, though he didn’t sound too sure of it. He pressed his lips together and stole a worried glance at Plath, who revealed no emotion.

Look how hard she’s gotten, Keats thought.

When they had first met, he’d marked her down as a spoiled little rich girl, probably a snob, who would condescend to him, look down her nose at him.

But that had not been true. She had been anything but a snob. But even then, early days, he’d noticed that effortless authority she carried with her. That was, without question, a product of wealth and privilege. Plath would admit that much. A billionaire’s daughter simply had an air about her that could not be faked by a working-class kid like Keats.

Part of him was proud of her in an uncomplicated way. He wanted to say, Well, look at you, all grown up and in charge. But part of him was small enough to focus on their relationship rather than BZRK. He was in love with her. He believed she loved him back. But how stable could a relationship be when there was this much of a difference in their circumstances? My God, the girl basically had a private army.

Anya let Plath touch her, just below her left eye.

Plath held the contact for a few seconds as her biot scampered off and began the journey to the optic nerve.