He looked down. “Dude. Well, my America visit is complete. I’ve been called ‘dude.’ ”

She took up the bantering tone. “How have you liked America so far?”

“Oh, it’s about what I expected,” he said.

That unleashed an almost hysterical burst of laughter from both of them.

“You suppose they’re watching us?” Keats asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“I hope so. That way they’ll be able to see this.” She held up the middle finger on both hands and stuck them in the air.

“So,” he said, faltering a little, “would you go out with me sometime?”

“That depends. What did you have in mind?”

“We get something to eat. See a movie.”

“I shot that man.” The words were out before she knew they were coming. A sob escaped behind them. And quiet tears.

“Yes.”

Neither had anything to say for a long time after that. Both sat in the dark, perched awkwardly on the edge of chair and bed.

Finally Plath yawned. “If I asked you to stay with me tonight … I mean, if I said I wanted you to lie next to me and sleep. Could it be just that? Could it just be that we—” Her voice broke and she couldn’t speak.

“You mean could we just be here together because we’re both scared to death? And hurt? And don’t have anyone else?”

She nodded. “Yes. That.”

She lay back on her narrow bed. He came and lay down beside her. Only their shoulders and thighs touched. For a while they lay staring up at peeling paint. And then, finally, sleep took them both away to terrifying dreams but also to a degree of oblivion.

In Brooklyn, a similar scene.

Though Jessica did her programmed best, the Bug Man just lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

He had beaten Vincent. That much he owned. No matter how Burnofsky sneered. No matter how much the Twins may have raged—at least in Bug Man’s imagination, because they didn’t call.

He had beaten Vincent.

He had.

Would have finished him off, too, except for stuff that happened in the macro. Which was not Bug Man’s fault.

The reports that came in from the lone survivor of the McLure building massacre mentioned a Taser. That’s what had kept Bug Man from finishing Vincent.

Macro stuff. Up there. Not down in the meat. Down in the meat Bug Man had taken Vincent out.

Damn right.

Whatever Burnofsky had to say.

Within a millimeter of dragging a still-living biot off the field. God, that would have made Burnofsky depressed to the point of suicide. And the Twins? They would have kissed his butt with their nasty freak mouths.

He could have messed with a captured biot until Vincent admitted that Bug Man ruled the nano.

Ruler of the nano.

So cool.

That would have been …

He heard sounds coming from outside his room. His mother getting up to go to work. His aunt would sleep another hour.

Bug Man rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Jessica asked.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, sweetheart, I can—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. Then in a gentler voice, “Look, just leave me alone, okay? Just …” He left her and went to the kitchen.

Bug Man’s mother was a mother-looking woman. She was overweight; she didn’t dress fancy; her hair was done once a week at salon run by another black woman from Britain, although she was from somewhere to the north, Newcastle or whatever.

His mother was watching the coffee brew. Just standing there.

“Hey, Mum,” Bug Man said.

She looked at him with a critical eye. “You got in late last night.”

The small TV on the counter was tuned to a cable-news channel. The sound was off. The picture was some jittery new bit of video from the stadium. It showed the plane hitting the stands. Still. Even now.

“Yeah. There was a … you know, screw-up. A thing that happened.”

“You didn’t get fired, did you?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” He reached past her to snag a mug and filled it with coffee though the pot wasn’t fully done. He added milk and sugar, lots of sugar. “They actually love me at work. I think I’m, like, their best guy. Tester. You know?”

His mother shook her head slowly, not to what he’d said, but to what she’d seen on the TV. “Kind of person who would do something like that. Savages.”

For a moment—but just for a fleeting moment—Bug Man almost connected that word savage to himself. Almost made a link between the horror on the screen and his own actions. But it passed and left no trace.

“No, they love me at work,” he repeated, hoping she would hear it this time.

“Just make sure you remember how lucky you are to have that job. So many people out of work.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m good at it. That’s why they have me. Because I’m the best.”

The toast popped up.

On the screen a man ran trailing fire and smoke, tripped and fell, and died.

“If you’re having toast, I’ll put some in.”

Bug Man sipped his coffee.

He had beaten Vincent. Yeah, he owned that.

Next time he’d finish it.

He took his sweetened coffee back to his room, sent Jessica packing, and despite the caffeine, fell asleep.

Bug Man woke suddenly, knowing he was not alone.

Four men stood around his bed. They were strong men, all dressed in casual clothing, innocuous pinks and tans and teals.