The Matrix Revealed
Part One: The Glimpse
The dismal and vacant rave lounge echoed with the sound of leather Louis Vuitton Malletier shoes strutting against dusty marble.
"So, this is Club Hel," quipped the Frenchman as the darkness of the empty hall consumed him. "Pathétique."
"It gets better."
The albino twins, Hamavet and Hamashet, garbed in pressed white business suits, were so alike that the Merovingian could seldom tell them apart—even now, he could not determine who had spoken. He turned to the duo and spoke to both and neither. "Oui, it shall be better because it is now in my possession. Your former proxénète had permitted it to fall into disrepair. Fool that he was to oppose me—now all that he had is mine."
"And yet you did not earn your latest acquisition," chided someone hidden in the shadow of the lounge's corner. "In fact, is there not another with more claim to it than you?"
Concern etched itself across the Merovingian's face, though his eyes remained resolute. "You still live." The concession was bitter as vinegar.
Shadows parted to reveal the emerging form of a giant who appeared to have been sliced cleanly in half. Garment swatches draped about It from head to toe like a grisly papier-mâché mummy, save for a gossamer cowl and an exposed hand by which It gripped Its straight wrought iron cane.
"The Animus," the Merovingian grimly whispered.
"If that is what I am to you," replied the half-a-giant who continued to move forward to the center of the room by way of leaning onto Its cane in order to hobble forward on Its single leg. The Twins took up position in front of the Merovingian, one knelt while the other stood, both extending fully automatic UZI pistols.
"Peace," said the Animus as it stepped forward and suddenly appeared behind the Merovingian. "There is no need for guard dogs between us—or shall you place the loyalty of your new servants to the test against the remnant of their former master?"
The Merovingian turned about, and after recovering from his surprise, saw the Animus in a new light. "Faire une tour," he said over his shoulder. The Twins, equally stunned, nodded and retreated several paces. "What cause brings you to me?"
Looking about with apparent disinterest, the Animus took in the scene around them. "Let us cut to the chase, Frenchman," It said at last. "You fear me. As much as you laud the Ostrogoth as a trophy to your minions and a warning to your enemies, we both know whose hand brought him low, to whom those Twins would ultimately bow."
The Merovingian sneered. "Of course: it is I. Did you think that I am a pitiable master who cannot control the leash of his dogs?"
Unwinding the cloth on Its face very slowly and meticulously, the Animus took on a condescending air of Its own. "The Visigoth was never your dog; he was your superior in every way, disadvantaged only by the Source Code bequeathed to you by the Architect. Had I not lead the forces of Zion to stop him, then he surely would have disseminated your kernel's algorithms one by one before relegating your fragments back to the Source."
"Even if this nonsense you speak is true," conceded the Frenchman with a haughty wave of his hand, "my question still remains: What cause brings you to me?"
"Can you not see that it is in both of our interests for you to do to the Ostrogoth what he would have done to you?" The Animus revealed Its face; a young girl, though her face was wrapped around the edge of the divided skull. "Delete him, and be rid of two threats."
An arrogant smirk crossed the Merovingian's face. "I am not so easily defeated, as you will no doubt see for yourself."
The room exploded with thunder, and in the blink of an eye the Merovingian found himself pinned to the wall by the half-a-giant. "Do not make me consume you."
"Mon cherie, it is obvious that you have played the extent of your hand and can play no more. What have I to fear from you when it is you who are embodying your own greatest fear, non? If you need me to destroy what remains of the Visigoth, then perhaps your dangerous reputation is unfounded. Now, remove your hands from me, or I shall send you to join your other half."
The Animus cocked Its half-a-head. The processes transmitted from the Twins were suddenly interrupted by a dead silence. Turning around, the Animus was greeted by a lavender-suited man whose face and hands were covered in tribal tattoos. Handcuffs dangled from either wrist, which the Animus perceived as code-linked nodes. The implications erupted within the Animus' mind.
"You're a. . . living transit router," the Animus said.
The formally attired tribal man smiled warmly before flicking out one of his handcuffs. But the Animus was gone.
"Did you get her?" the Merovingian asked.
The tribal man shook his head in the negative.
"Nom de dieu, is it so hard to catch a one-legged and one-armed girl?" the Merovingian exclaimed. He grabbed an empty bottle from a nearby table and threw it against the wall. "My revolution cannot be complete with only the Ostrogoth." His French nose leaned in close to the tribal man. "You will retrieve her."
The lines were long.
In the aftermath of Supreme Commander Jason Lock's decimation of his own command structure on suspicion of sedition, the streets of Zion were filled with disenfranchised soldiers and Army personnel who were deemed potentially complicit with Greggor Hart's failed coup d'état. Many of them were rounded up; others were subpoenaed to stand before a tribunal to give account for their participation and later released or jailed, as determined by the tribunals.
Until their due hearing, most low-level soldiers were forced to dwell in the newly furnished Zion Community Shelter, as they lost all privileges of military service, including their quarters. The Zion Council deemed it necessary to erect a shelter, far from the Dock Promenade and other key areas of the City, to house everyone until the fiasco was sorted out.
And so, day after day, Brahmin could be found in the lunch line, slopping soup into bowls and administering extra protein sticks to those who appeared malnourished. The food really was awful, but Brahmin figured that since most of these men had been soldiers, the military rations would serve just fine. The hydroponic crops that fed most Zionists were simply too scarce a resource to offer to those who may only wind up imprisoned—or worse.
The next face in line made him scowl.
"What are you doing here?" Brahmin whispered, pretending not to notice the man.
"Having a bite to eat, if that's all right," Axel said, biting off the end of a protein stick.
"There is food in my quarters," Brahmin began to say.
"You mean Doc's quarters?" Axel shot back, looking straight at him.
It was true; Brahmin could not deny it. His less than honorable discharge meant that he lost his regular captain's quarters. Doc had immediately insisted that he stay with him. After the discharge, Axel had perceived it as an unforgivable breach of justice, and so when his name was called before the tribunal to give account for his actions in the Rebellion—absconding with a decommissioned ship—he did not attend.
Technically, Axel was a fugitive, even though his pardon had cost Brahmin his own commission. Though Brahmin wanted out of the Army and saw it as a win/win solution, he knew that Axel would not see it that way and would only blame himself. But since he had ignored the summons from the tribunal that would have declared him innocent, Axel had to live beneath the radar of society. He saw it as a heroic protest; Brahmin saw it as pure stupidity.
"Right," Brahmin finally said. "You're a wanted man; you know you can't be here."
Axel cocked a loaded grin beneath week old scruff. "So are half of these other jokers, Captain."
"I'm not a captain anymore," Brahmin said with a futile sigh. "Now, do you want snot or piss?" He gestured toward the amino stews which looked disconcertingly like Brahmin's description.
"Could you hurry it up?" interrupted the next guy in line. "People are hungry back here!"
In a slow turn, Axel clenched his fists in preparation of what came next. When he laid eyes upon the man who had protested, his suspicions were proven true. "Brutus," Axel said flatly. "I didn't know they let no-good sons of bitches like you out of the pound."
Brutus, the operator of Greggor Hart's flagship during the insurrection, lowered his head, the fight gone out of him. "I just want something to eat."
"Oh, is that all?" Axel said with his voice raised. "Because last month you just wanted to kill everyone!"
"It wasn't like that," Brutus mumbled, his chin pressed against his chest in shame. "Commander Hart—"
A haymaker cut off whatever Brutus was about to say next and laid him out on the ground. The crowd quickly made room, not wishing to get involved. Axel stepped forward, rubbing his fist. "Don't you ever call that man by any title of honor," he said before spitting on Brutus' face.
"What is going on here?"
Everyone immediately dispersed, no longer caring about their place in line. Gerard, the administrator of the community shelter, did not take kindly to brawling—many a men lost their food privileges for as long as a week for violating the strict non-violence guidelines.
"Just jostling for position in line," Brahmin piped up.
Gerard looked at Brahmin, then sized up Brutus' prone body on the floor and Axel's tense form standing upright over him. "You," he said, pointing to Brutus. "Get your food and get out of line. As for you," said the administrator as he turned to Axel. "What did I tell you last week? We don't serve fugitives. I suggest you get a head start on the Militia, because I'm about to alert them to your presence here. Now, beat it!"
Axel stormed past Gerard, bumping into his shoulder, and received a hand-off; a couple of protein sticks and an antiseptic patch to sanitize himself. "Thanks," Axel whispered.
The administrator grimly nodded through a scowl as he watched Axel leave.
Doc continued making his rounds. It was not an easy task, watching over Zion's invalids. Most of them weren't even conscious, though his nursing staff cared for them well. Rissa, his lead nurse, was tending to his favored patient, Phoenix, in her private room, courtesy of Morpheus, the new deputy commander-in-chief. Normally, Doc would ask Rissa if there was any change in the patient's vitals, but many days and weeks of nothing finally broke the habit. He settled to observe Rissa change the feeding tubes again.
"That boy has some kind of faith," Doc said at last.
Rissa was briefly startled. "Oh, yes," she said as she secured the last tube. "If I hadn't read the report for myself, there's no way I'd believe this girl is presently in the Matrix as we speak."
"Oh, that is indeed an act of faith," Doc quipped, "but the real stretch is believing she will wake from it."
"Yes," agreed another. "She must have spirit."
Doc turned around to recognize the day shift physician. "Ben, I didn't see you there."
"Forgot my coat," Ben replied with a warm, fatherly grin. "We'll see you later."
Something nagged at the back of Doc's mind, but he couldn't determine what it was. No matter—surely it would come to him if it was important.
After eating another one of his protein sticks—Axel decided to spare the rest for later—he sat above the entrance to the Shelter looking up at the towering Power Core, which was positioned near the center of the cylindrical urban modules. Its glowing light cast a gloom upon the outskirts of the city. Evidently, Zion was originally a subterranen military base of some kind, but had been retrofitted over the past century into a domesticated city. The final bastion of humanity's resistance against the Machines, Zion was intended to have been some sort of vault to protect the insiders from the horrors beyond. The Dock was above the Core, its impenetrable walls forming an umbrella around the heart of the city, with the Core and urban modules being the yolk of the egg. The engineering levels were below, amidst the abandoned parts of the city. Though Axel usually wandered through them to avoid the Militia which only half-heartedly sought his capture, tonight he had business.
Before long, the shift change at the med center would allow for him to visit Phoenix, as he did often, but before that, he would follow Brutus to wherever that traitor's pet would go. He had not been a regular resident of the Shelter, and Axel wanted to know what sympathizer would harbor him.
It was only a few moments until Brutus shuffled through the doors beneath him to the "streets", which were little more than gridiron catwalks between modules, some of which were rooted in the engineering level far below. Making his way quickly but carefully, Brutus eventually made his way to less populated modules, until Axel was forced to take detours through narrow maintenance hatches to avoid being spotted.
After awhile, Axel was reasonably confident that Brutus was nearing the unused hangars which were used to outfit the massive fleet of battleships in pre-Matrix times. The much smaller hovercrafts were better suited in the Dock, leaving the hangars a wide, open expanse of abandoned junk which were useless to the Zion populace, but perfect for exiled vagrants like Brutus.
A proud smirk crossed Axel's face as he saw Brutus tinkering with the access panel to one of the hangars. Something told him to leave now and report Brutus' burglary, but after Axel's antics earlier, he wasn't sure who would believe him. As he considered it more, Axel was quite sure that anyone other than Brahmin would laugh him out on his ear. He grunted and followed Brutus into the hangar as quietly as possible.
Lunch. A splendid time of the day. It allowed for brief pleasure between the many calls of business. Of course, it didn't compare to nightlife, but as an exiled program, the Merovingian never slept. A fact that many of the mindless female peons in the Matrix could confirm.
Sipping from a glass of Chateau Latour, the Merovingian considered his wife, Persephone, as he looked up at her. So fair, so jealous. And yet so boring. There was nothing he did not know about her. Many times he pursued other women, even humans, just to see if she would react differently. But, of course, she did not, for her cause was a simple one: love. And so her reaction to his philandering ways was always so predictable: jealous fury.
Once again, they sat together at the VIP table in Le Vrie, the Merovingian's favorite restaurant, encoded with all the Frenchman's favored tricks. The VIP table was dominated with the boring silence which inexorably followed his regular episodes of infidelity.
"Mon dieu, Persephone, why must you always put up this parodie? The universe makes us who we are; as beings of passion, it is not for us to deny ourselves, but to embrace our desires, oui? Come, let us allow for some excitement in our lives."
And it was not without a sense of irony that the Merovingian beheld a most conspicuous individual dressed in antiquated garb making his way through the threshold of his prestigious dining room. The maître-dais attempted to halt the intruder's progression, but was sent flailing through the air into a distant table. The patrons of the restaurant began panicking, some making to run away while others hid under their tables as two dozen armed guards quickly produced automatic weapons, all trained on the man nonchalantly moseying toward the Merovingian's table.
"What are you waiting for?" the Merovingian shouted. "Kill him!"
A thousand empty bullet casings fell to the floor, yet not one of the slugs which they once contained found their target. The Merovingian found himself staring down a hallway that formed by walls which had sprouted up on either side of his nonplussed visitor. He could hear the pings of ricocheting bullets on the opposite side of them.
The intruder was very near now, so the Merovingian took the opportunity to study the object of his most intense wrath for some time. He had the look of an Agent, but his overcoat was tanned and frayed with faded gold stars on each shoulder, and also boasted a shiny badge in the breast pocket. His head was covered in a wide-brimmed trilby hat which matched his overcoat. When the Merovingian tried to meet the intruder's gaze, he instead met his own reflection in a pair of rimless chrome aviators.
"Make it quick, cowboy," the Merovingian sneered. "You do not have much longer to live, and I would like to know what prompted your suicide today."
Two ghostly apparitions alighted behind the intruder, both armed with butterfly knives and UZIs.
"I am the Law," stated the intruder. He suddenly burst into flames, though neither he nor his clothes were even singed. The Twins were forced to flee, as the close quarters did not allow for them to get near the Merovingian, and even when incorporeally phased they could not withstand the inferno indefinitely.
"Tell me, Mr. Law Man," the Merovingian said pensively. "What can I do for you?"
The flames around the Lawman subsided as he removed a silver .45 caliber long-barrel revolver from his coat and stuck it inches from the Merovingian's nose. "Where is the Animus?" When the Lawman cocked the hammer back, the Merovingian could not suppress a gulp.
"You wanted to see me?"
Supreme Commander Lock appeared a little startled at the absence of the obligatory "sir". But then Brahmin had been given a less-than-honorable discharge.
"Yes, Brahmin," Lock said uneasily. "Why don't you take a seat?"
Brahmin cleared his throat. "I prefer to stand, Jason, as always."
"Right," Lock mumbled. He stood to his feet and walked around his desk to speak with Brahmin nose to nose. "I hear from Gerard that you're doing good work down at the Shelter. 'An invaluable asset', he said."
Silence. Brahmin had no intention of helping the man say whatever he had dragged him here to say.
"Though your time with the Army has passed," Lock continued, "it is clear that you love your city." Lock paused to study Brahmin, whose face was polite but expressionless. "As you know, Greggor Hart's conspiracy has put us into a bit of a jam. There's no telling how deep this goes, Brahmin, so what I am about to tell you is for your ears only—not even my staff." Brahmin turned about and browsed his own office before meeting Brahmin's gaze again. "We've determined that Hart has a network of informants and infiltrators outside of my command."
"Doesn't Captain Mifune report to you?" Brahmin asked as he raised an eyebrow.
"My command oversees Mifune's Militia," Lock said, "but we simply cannot exercise the authority that the situation calls for."
"And the Council doesn't see things your way," Brahmin deduced.
"Same old story," Lock admitted. "That's where I need you."
Brahmin smirked. "What could you possibly need me for? I'm 'retired'."
"That's exactly the point!" Lock exclaimed in excitement. "No one would suspect you!"
"Suspect me of what?" Brahmin asked. He suddenly did not like the direction which the conversation was going.
"I need eyes and ears out there," Lock said with a gesture toward the streets of Zion. "Despite the tons upon metric tons of scrap metal and dismantled cyborg chassis from Hart's pathetic attempt to seize power, all we can stick to him and the motherless bastards who followed him are crisscrossing testimonies. Everyone is accusing and defending everyone else. We barely have enough hard evidence to keep Hart locked away, as ridiculous as that sounds. Zion needs you, Brahmin."
The old captain looked at his former commanding officer. "What exactly do you need me to do?"
"Simple," Lock replied with an intense stare. "Keep your ear to the ground, take note of everything you hear, and provide me with the evidence to lock these bastards up for good."
"That's a pretty heavy workload," Brahmin taunted. "What reason do I have to do as you ask?"
"Because," Lock retorted, "I did you a favor with that discharge. I kept you out of the mess of the tribunal investigation. And if gratitude isn't enough, soldier, then bear in mind that if the Network has its way, your head will roll right after mine."
"Tell me of your dreams," Axel heard the man say to Brutus. The lowly outcast was surrounded by three men, two of whom he recognized—Abraxas and Grimner, grease monkeys from the engineering level. The speaker was obscurred by Brutus.
"What. . . what do you mean?" Brutus stammered. "These guys just offered me a place to sleep without—they offered me a bed."
"Ah, Brutus," the man said with a fatherly tone. "It is vision which distinguishes us from the Machines, yes? It was vision of a bed which brought you to me. You supported a man who would merge us with machines, but he had no vision. What would we do once our minds were bound by circuity? I tell you, even if a man would gain the whole world, yet lose his very soul, what would he have gained in the end? Hm? Positively nothing" He stepped aside into view, appearing much more aged than Axel expected. Axel still couldn't recognize him, despite the blaring familiarity of his enunciated voice. "This is why I ask you of your dreams. Machines cannot dream."
"I don't know," Brutus said gruffly. "Commander Hart didn't say nothin' about becoming a Machine. He just said that he could end the war, but it would mean the overthrow of Zion."
"Ah, so you dreamed of an end to the war," the old man said. "The war shall never end, Brutus, so long as it exists in the hearts of men. Machines will do what they are built to do so long as men seek to control them."
"You would give up?" Brutus asked in shock. "Just let them kill everyone and let the Matrix continue on as always?"
"Why not?" Abraxas said through his crooked mouth. "You think that bastard Hart gave two jerks about all them people in the Matrix?"
The old man gave a gentle, understanding wave to coax Abraxas back to silence. "Whether or not Mr. Hart had the good will of everyone in mind is not the issue at hand. The issue is that it is only we who can secure your dreams for you, the dream of peace or any other."
Brutus raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"Come, my son," said the old man as he put his arm around Brutus' shoulders. "Let us speak more privately." A nearly inperceptible twitch of his head directed Abraxas and Grimner in Axel's direction.
"Dammit!" Axel hissed. He abandoned his hiding spot within the debris of despoiled equipment and ran for the entrance, the echoes of pursuit not far behind.
The top of the belltower adorned the cathedral like a tiara on a blushing bride. The archaic splendor of the large stone edifice was magnified by the sharp, pointed tower that rang out resonating peals at intermittent, seemingly random moments. Surrounded by low-income housing and offset by high-rise skyscrapers in the distance, the Clairvoyant's Cathedral was as much of an oddity it was beautiful.
The Animus stood in solemn contemplation as it overlooked the cityscape below. It had not asked for the dedication of the abandoned cathedral to be commemorated to Its victory against the Visigoth, a once dreaded program who tormented program and human alike within the Matrix. The Animus had only been a girl at the time, who had been exposed to source code and obtained an inexplicable insight into how the Matrix worked, as well as being able to invade the code of programs to a limited degree.
Having performed this remotely without being jacked into the Matrix, the girl seized an opportunity while the Visigoth was weak from battling Neo—the true master of the Matrix—and claimed part of the Visigoth's programming for her own. Now she walked about within half of his kernel shell with the other half on display in the Visigoth's chateau where he walked it about on a leash to the amusement of his cronies and the horror of his captives. He had dubbed it the "Ostrogoth", and used it as a symbol of his power against the Animus.
That did not shake the faith of the many Exiles below, however. To them, the Animus was the Holy Clairvoyant, neither human nor program; a deity of sorts. If the Machines were even capable of religious concepts.
The Source was the primary intelligence from which all other programs descended, and its avatar within the Matrix was a miserable old man known as the Architect. The Animus had so far avoided contact with such a powerful entity; It did not know what would result from such an encounter.
"Do you require anything, Your Grace?"
An ashen woman of uncertain ethnicity stood with folded hands and bowed head in a sackloth robe.
The Animus sighed and shook Its head. "Not now nor ever," it replied.
"Of course," the servile woman said.
"I think I shall retire," the Animus said, turning from the viewpoint toward the descending spiral staircase.
"Of course, Your Grace," replied the attendant. "Shall I assist you?"
"No, Shana. Go about your business."
Shana reluctantly nodded and descended first. The Animus waited until the program was out of sight before hopping one precarious step at a time.
Exiled programs were flooding into the Cathedral—more with every passing day. Sareph's Sanctuary was home to those who were hunted by the Merovingian, but those Exiles of low profile who could hide within the Matrix preferred the brief sojourn to the Cathedral where they presumed to receive the blessing and protection of the Animus Clairvoyant.
Though Shana had disturbed the Animus' train of thought, she personified the burden growing upon the Animus' shoulder. The Architect cared little for the state of affairs within the Matrix, so long as mathematical equilibrium was maintained, that minds would remain captive. Neo was an anomaly which was corrected every time he jacked out of the Matrix, yet the Animus remained a constant presence in order to suppress the half of the Visigoth whose kernel shell body it possessed. What steps would the Architect take to balance the presence of the Animus?
Within moments, the Animus was within earshot of the main hall where an invocation was being given. It was with great reluctance that the Animus would indulge such displays, but the Exiles simply would not depart without some form of acknowledgment, no matter how brief.
"Come to us, Holy Animus, grant us thy sight and wisdom. We wait for thee, Wise Clairvoyant, until thou come." The refrain would begin again with another section of the assembled crowd taking up the next round.
A hush descended upon the crowd as the Animus came forth from the rectory. The various algorithms which formulated the various thought processes of each of the gathered Exiles emanated to the Animus like an aura of sorts. One Exile, however, stood out from the others. His aura was blinding, but fractured somehow, like daylight through a stained glass window. The intentions of this Exile, however, were not so mysterious.
"Shana," the Animus said flatly. "Get everyone out of here. Now."
Whether or not Shana stopped to consider the situation, she gave no indication. In seconds, she was gathering people from nearby aisles and directing other attendants to do the same.
"Some place you got here," the stranger said in a mild drawl.
The Animus attempted to infiltrate the Exile's programming. The stranger twitched. "Do that again, and I'll take it personally." The long silver barrel of a .45 revolver slid out from the sleeve of his overcoat. "That wouldn't be good for your little friends here."
The last of the gathering was fleeing through varous doorways. The Animus stood resolute. "There is nothing of value here. Take your fight elsewhere."
The stranger tipped the brim of his hat up, revealing chrome sunglasses. "Oh, there won't be a fight," he said as he strutted down the center aisle. "But there is something here of great value. And I've come to take it."
Unimpressed, the Animus was still cautious. "Who are you?"
The stranger stopped in midstride as if someone had pinched him. He looked up at nothing and particular, scratching his chin as if in thought. His face immediately brightened as if he had been given a great surprise gift, then tapped the badge on his chest. "They call me the Lawman, and I am the one who will bring you in."
Though the eccentric Lawman did not appear at all like any of the Architect's Agents, his programming appeared to be predicated on similar objectives. No Agent would come near the Animus for fear of being unplugged; surely this "Lawman" did not think himself better than the omnipresent Agents.
"And how do you propose to do that?" the Animus asked.
The Lawman raised his revolver, saying, "One bullet at a time," and fired.
Time stood still, and the bullet hovered in mid-air, its trajectory charted by telltale code that only the Animus could see. The Exile, though, was on the move. With his first bullet suspended in mid-air, frozen in time along with a few attendants returning to the great hall, the Lawman began moving and firing repeatedly. Somehow the Lawman was unbound by the temporal mechanics protocals of the Matrix source code. Its primary advantage nullified, the Animus dove behind the podium. A bullet penetrated the stone podium and erupted from Its midsection. For the first time since Its rebirth, the Animus felt the cold, nimble fingers of panic take hold.
In the Zion Medical Center, Phoenix's body began to convulse.
"Doctor!" Rissa, the head nurse, called out as she rushed to Phoenix's bedside. "Heartrate is up, vital signs are all over the place!"
Doc hurried from down the narrow hallway lined with patients on gurneys into Phoenix's room—a luxury for the Med Center. "What's her status?"
An interrupted warble indicating a flatline cut off Rissa's immediate response. Doc moved on sheer instinct. "Cardiac arrest! Rissa, ready the apropine and confirm count on my chest compressions."
The Animus felt a jolt of energy spike through Its consciousness. It looked down at the hole in Its chest. Closed up. The cascade of bullets had temporarily stopped. Whoever this program was, it did not emanate code in the same way as other programs; it was like an astronomer attempting to chart the sun. In this way, the Animus determined It could track this Lawman by the interruption it brought to the projection of code from the surrounding environment. Presently, the Animus could not detect the code projection of the main door due to the eclipse effect; this meant the Lawman was still center aisle, midway from the dais. The Animus hunkered lower, laying nearly prostrate on the ornate carpet behind the podium. A low knocking from below the carpet distracted the Animus from the clicking and pinging of the Lawman dumping the shells from the cylinders of his revolvers and reloading them. The floor violently shifted as a portion of it moved aside. Rising up from the hole was Shana.
"Come this way, Your Grace," she whispered in frantic urgency.
The Animus offered no argument. Shuffling as best It could manage with Its deformity, the Animus descended through the trap door with the aid of Shana.
Part Two: The Feint
Axel had fled the scene and ran like crazy. Those two uglies, Abraxas and Grimner, were hot on his trail and, by way of their threats, left nothing to the imagination the horrors they would inflict when they caught him. Had he not been in the poking around, spying on Brutus, in the derelict hangar that was abandoned long ago after the loss of humanity to the Machin's digital prison known as the Matrix, he could have merely shouted for help. Here, in the abandoned areas of the city, the only hope of aid he would have was to run into a passing patrol The narrow catwalks allowed him to run at full speed, but they offered no cover that would hide him from his pursuers.
Benedict introduces Brutus to Iscariot
The Animus meets with Seraph and the Oracle
Abraxas and Grimoir storm the med center