Brainboy and the Deathmaster by Tor Seidler Page A

she said.
    “You don’t smell like no rose petals yourself,” Boris snapped.
    “Where’s Ms. Grimsley?” BJ asked.
    “Probably in the garage sniffing the bucket seats in her new car,” said the redhead.
    But BJ found Ms. Grimsley reading in her office.
    “Mr. Walker,” she said, shoving her paperback into her bag. “Surely it’s not Saturday.”
    “No. I brought Boris.”
    “Hey,” Boris said, stepping in. “I was wondering if I could stay a few days.”
    “We’re not a hotel, Mr. Rizniak.”
    “But he’s been living on the streets,” BJ said. “You’re not full up, are you?”
    “Not at the moment, no.”
    In the end she grudgingly agreed to let Boris have a room—the same third-floor room he’d shared with Darryl a month ago. BJ accompanied him up there.
    “She didn’t know about the knife?” Boris said, closing the door.
    “Nah,” said BJ.
    “Thanks, man. Where is it?”
    “I got it at home.”
    “Can I have it back?”
    “When you cough up Darryl’s GameMaster.”
    “I had to sell it for bus tickets.”
    BJ sat down at the desk. “Do me a favor, will you?”
    “What?”
    “Take a shower.”
    “You’re the one stinking the place up.”
    But in a minute Boris actually did traipse out of the room.
    Left on his own, BJ flicked on the laptop—the real reason he’d come. Ever since he’d watched Darryl play StarMaster, CastleMaster had seemed kind of lame, but on his Saturday visits here he never had time to try his luck, what with his mother waiting in the car. He’d forgotten about the maze, though. This one looked disturbingly complex. But he concentrated on visualizing a path through it, and with a couple of lucky guesses he managed to make it through with five seconds to spare.
    The game list appeared, and he clicked on StarMaster 3. His opponent was called SuperSuk. He just called himself BJ. But he wasn’t experienced andhad recruited only two Individualist leaders when Boris came back in—smelly as ever.
    “You didn’t shower?”
    “Keep your shorts on. I wanted to check out Grimface’s new wheels. You’re not gonna believe what she’s driving.”
    “What?”
    “A brand-new S-GPS 600.”
    “A Mercedes?”
    “No, a toaster oven. What do you think, dork-brain?”
    “But they’re top of the line.”
    “No duh. Come on, man, you got to check it out.”
    So BJ gave up the losing cause and went to see Ms. Grimsley’s fancy new car.

15
    A s soon as she opened her eyes, she shut them again and tried to get back to the circus tent. She’d just let go of her trapeze; she’d been somersaulting through the air to the astonished gasps of the crowd below. A tiny figure was swinging toward her, hanging by his knees from another trapeze, growing bigger and bigger the closer they got. It was Boris! She flew toward him, but when she grabbed his hands, she couldn’t quite hold on, and the crowd sucked in its breath. Yet even as she tumbled through the air, she knew she would land in the safety net, and soon Boris would drop down and join her there and the relieved crowd would give them a hand anyway.
    However, she landed in her bed. She wasn’t a dare-devil flying-trapeze artist at all, she was just Nina Rizniak, twelve and blind as a bat. And she wasn’t with her brother, she was all alone in room seven at Paradise Lab. Most mornings she managed not to cry, but the feel of her brother’s hands, brief as it had been, seemed so real that she couldn’t keep her eyes from misting over, making the rosy blur of the globe light turn to tomato soup.
    The soup brightened as Mr. Masterly’s recorded voice filled the room:
    “Rise and shine, friend and colleague. It’s a new day—the day you may well make the discovery that will change human history. …”
    Nina put a pillow over her head, muffling the inspirational voice. Long after the daily pep talk ended, she was still trying to get a grip on herself. But finally, knowing she would be the last to breakfast, she tossed the