1. The Knight Shift
Dawning in Zion came from the bottom up, clawing its way along the toothy cylinder of the city in an electrical flicker, more like lightning than sunlight. The process moved one level at a time, oscillating in color and intensity before finally establishing a vapid white gloom and moving on to the next, higher level. The noise was such that someone watching from above might have the idea of floating over an invisible thunderhead, and though Knight had abandoned the catwalk long ago and gone inside, he thought he could hear it coming. Or it could have been the sound of his groaning.
He lay naked, face-up on the bed. On the nightstand beside him sat a plate of barely-touched flatbread buried beneath a small mountain of powdered sugar. He was wet from an icy shower that hadn't helped his situation at all - it was an unusually hot morning and his apartment was like a crucible – and already the beads of water covering his chest and shoulders were mixing with a sheen of sweat. Not that the heat had anything to do with his particular kind of discomfort. The temperature didn't even occur to him as he stared at the rock above him, running his hand through the damp blonde curls on his head and then gripping them in a fist, tugging until he gave himself pain.
Nothing helped; it was hopeless. He was completely and utterly undone.
Breasts. She had… breasts! Knight grunted at the memory and turned over, smothering his face in the pillow. It wasn't that he'd never seen breasts before. But her breasts! They were small and flawlessly white, cupped in two demilunes of nude lace with a tiny bow in the middle. A bow! He wanted to die. Suicide was the answer. Nothing short of death-then-purgatory could release him from the hell of knowing the full sweet torment of that bow.
Every moment brought fresh agony, as he remembered. He could not keep himself from remembering. The first memory was powder-soft skin and artfully-placed birthmarks – one over her heart, and another just to the right of her navel. As if a master painter had placed them there and not Nature at all. Then, he remembered the lacy underwear (a match to the much-beloved brazier), lifted from her tummy by jutting hipbones. The fabric was darkened in the center by the triangle of pubic hair it was supposed to hide; he'd noticed a rogue curl escaping one of the edges. He was perverse! But he made himself see it all again, especially when she turned around to gather the rest of her gown, and he was treated to a view of the back of her. Cutely, probably self-consciously, her bottom was puckered as she dressed.
And that was delicious – the thought of Rorie's being modest, after stripping off her clothes in a public avenue! What had come over her? A newly blossoming part of him fantasized that she'd done it because she'd secretly wanted to show herself off to him. It was her clumsy attempt at seduction. She was angry with him for ignoring her all this time, for his countless indiscretions with other girls, for not making the first move despite all her flirtations (Knight was already compiling a list of possible examples of these flirtations, all of which were obvious in retrospect). So at last her patience broke and she threw off her clothes as a final, desperate plea for his attention. Of course, now she regretted it – she'd run away and hidden her face in her hands - but only because she thought it had all been in vain. All that remained for him to do was to go and tell her that he was a stupid oaf, a certifiable moron who did not deserve her. That was the first thing – self-deprecation to show his humility and esteem. But then he'd go on to admit that he'd thought of nothing but her since it happened, and that he couldn't get her out of his mind, and she didn't have to worry anymore because now he knew what she'd known all along. That they were perfect for one another. Simply, obviously, it was meant to be. To show her how serious he was he'd bring a gift of some kind. He'd find a book of sappy poetry that she didn't already have. Or jewellery. Was that not the standard romantic gift to give a woman? Surely, if he was intent on winning Rorie – the Rorie- he'd have to woo properly, with class.
It is at this point that you, dear Reader, must acknowledge, if you have not done so already, that Knight was in very serious trouble.
He knew it himself. Besides being a pervert and runaway egomaniac, he was also delusional. Giving Rorie jewellery! 'Wooing'! While he was at it, he might as well build a spaceship and fly them both to the moon to have tea with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare.
The situation, as it existed in reality, was plain enough to him. Rorie had not been able to sleep after her harrowing ordeal, prompting her to come to him, seeking friendly comfort. As she had always done, and he in return, for the past ten years of their friendship. He was the one who'd been looking for something more. He was the one who had changed, though he hadn't been able to admit it to himself at the time. Now it was beyond denial. The unfamiliar feelings, buzzing madly in his subconscious, had caused him to blather something stupid – the joke about Morpheus' Pants – at the most inopportune moment. He did not blame Rorie for being frustrated with him. Or angry. She'd had every right to leave, and when he'd snatched the end of her dress like a lunatic, what other escape had he left her but to do exactly what she'd done? She'd thrown off her dress as a way out, and as punishment, a way of humiliating him. There was no kinky undercurrent of exhibitionism, no secret motivation to entice – all this was in his mind. Her raging jealousy was in his mind. The way she'd been looking at him lately, the strange gentleness of her touch - all in his mind. And when he thought of the Oracle and her prophecy that he and Rorie would never be together in this lifetime, it was only in his mind that she'd placed particular emphasis on the word this. Was Rorie not on what her father would call her 'second life'? Could this be an example of the Oracle's perverse affinity for wordplay? If so, then did this loophole apply to both of them, such that he, too must die and come back to life before they could be together? And could this be accomplished safely and privately with a bottle of pain killers and a pre-emptive call to the medbay?
Foolish hope! Suicidal hope! Knight let out a growl of contempt – for the Oracle, for Rorie, for his own stupidity – and swung his feet off the bed. Moodily, he looked for something to wear on the ground. He lived in a large, single-chambered cave dug into a type of igneous rock called kimberlite. Unlike the caramel-coloured sandstone from which most of Zion was built, this rock was dark and grainy, nearly black except for a modest dusting of crystals – green olivine, purple garnet, glittering diamond. In truth, Knight found the hodgepodge-kaleidoscope rather ugly. But after he'd graduated from the Academy, he and Rorie had gone apartment hunting together, and she'd been fascinated with what she assured him was a very unusual geological site. The rock, she'd explained, was a result of cooled magma which had flowed through the sediments millions of years ago. The particular pipe in which his cave happened to be built was home to rare minerals from the much-deeper mantle layer of the earth, which she was intent on studying. "I could study a cave like this for years and still not discover everything," she'd said. "I would do anything to live in a place like this."
So he'd bought it, even though it was much too dark and the floor was so uneven he had to use a flight manual to prop up one leg of his desk.
Rorie used to spend weekends picking diamonds off his walls. He listened while she tried to explain the meanings of abstruse words like xenocryst and phlogopite and magnesium-iron-silicate, and then lectured about why it was important that he not only listen but understand what she was saying, because it was 'sinful' to be surrounded by so much natural history and not appreciate it. Knight remembered thinking at the time, rather snidely that Rorie didn't have any idea of what sinful behaviour really was, if she believed his ignorance of geochemistry fell into that category.
She still didn't have a clue. He knew she didn't, and this presented for him a particular problem. The past ten years, she was like a younger sister to him - naïve, innocent, and sexually invisible. If he'd ever thought about her in the context of romance, it was in a defensive, brotherly way. He'd chaperoned her at parties and told the losers to take a hike, and, when she wasn't looking, told the winners to take a longer, more dangerous hike, all with the self-righteous idea of protecting her from the attentions of less-than-honourable men. Now Knight questioned his motivations. Subconsciously, had he been saving her for himself? No, he could not believe that. But certainly, he felt like a hypocrite. More than that, he felt like a fraud.
Was this not a betrayal? To Rorie, to their friendship, to Trinity and Neo, who had treated him like a son and now trusted him with their daughter's life?
It would be different, Knight thought, if he could be certain that his intentions were noble, that this was not just some passing infatuation. If somehow he could know that he was really in love.
And here he stopped, his briefs halfway up his legs and his heart halfway up his oesophagus. In love with her. The thought arrested him instantly, inciting a change so fundamental, so significant, it affected him like a rewiring of every chemical synapse in his brain. In a hair's breadth of time, he emerged a radically changed person. Didn't he already love her? Hadn't he always loved her, in the dearest, most sincere and committed fashion, his entire adult life? The additional loving of her breasts and underpants seemed a small and natural extension of everything he'd already felt for her, always. Wasn't this enough to say he was properly, honourably, honestly in love? If not, what more must he feel or do, or want to do, before he could call himself worthy? Knight was very concerned about this. If he was missing some component, he wanted to know about it right away. Because if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that nobody had sex with Rorie unless he loved her first. Not that this was his only goal. Not that this was all he wanted. But if he was in love, wasn't he allowed to fantasize?
Bleary eyed, Knight slumped into the chair at his desk, his head in his hands. The delicacy of her! The sweetness! She was the sweetest, most beautiful thing imaginable and he'd always thought so! He wanted to shout it from the highest avenue in Zion. This was bliss! This was hell! How could he ever look at her again? How could he not look? Would the memory of that bow and those breasts and that stray curl of pubic hair be enough to sustain him for the rest of his life? If only he had a picture!
Such was Knight's agitation that when he was interrupted by knocking at his door, he nearly fell off his chair. Feeling as if he'd been caught at something dirty (or at least embarrassing), he frantically searched around for his pants and a T-shirt. It occurred to him only after he was dressed that it could be only Rorie; nobody else would come so early. She had come to make up. Or she had come to yell at him some more. Either way, he had to look good. And smell good. So he doused himself with cologne to compensate for the unwashed clothing and rinsed his mouth with a nasty mixture of baking soda and water. The pounding at the door came more impatiently as he scrambled to hide the rest of his mess under the bed. In the mirror he checked himself, running his hands through his thick, frizzy curls, wishing he'd had the presence of mind to add wax after his shower. He smiled, not too much, just a friendly-sort-of-grin. There was nothing suspicious or sexually wanton about a friendly-sort-of-grin. Once he was satisfied that his boyish dimples were on display, Knight held that picture-perfect expression and opened the door. "Well, good morn--"
"Hello, Knight."
"Jesus Christ!"
"That's what the cultists call me. Scary sons of bitches. They make dolls out of my trash and put them under their pillows." The One looked tired and spoke seriously. "Your light was on so I thought I'd… pop in and say hello."
Knight's jaw dropped. In ten years, Neo had never once come to visit him, anywhere. And he seldom, if ever, said hello, even when Knight said it first. The simple reason for this, Knight knew, was that Neo did not like him. And when you are the undisputed saviour of the last human civilization, you do not have to say hello to people you do not like.
Therefore it followed as Knight's logical conclusion that Neo had not popped by to say hello. No, here there lurked a much more sinister motivation. Murder! Neo had come to kill him, or at the very least, deliver a very good ass-kicking.
Knight had almost been expecting it. Simply stated, you don't punch a man in the face, French-kiss his wife and then fantasize about having sex with his daughter and not expect to get blowback. But how had Neo found out? Rorie had promised that the first two offences would be kept secret, and the third was so unspeakable he'd probably end up taking it to the grave. How, then? Was the One really omniscient, as the aforementioned doll-making cultists believed? But it didn't matter. Somehow, Neo knew about one of these things, or some combination of two, or all three, and now it was time to settle the score. It would be bad, Knight knew, but he promised himself he would not lose his dignity. He'd take the beating like a man. Or perhaps he'd run away.
"Can I come in?" Neo asked.
"Of course," Knight replied, looking around for witnesses. There were none. "Come right in."
"I'm sorry I've come so early," Neo said once they were both inside and the door was shut (but not locked). "As you know, it's difficult for me to walk around in public once the streets get crowded."
"Right. Of course."
"One of the disadvantages of my position. Of being the One."
"I understand."
"With great power comes great responsibility."
"Yes, I agree."
"Oh? You do?"
"Well, I can imagine."
"What is that? That smell."
"What smell?"
"Are you wearing cologne?"
"No. Well, yes. A little."
"You put on cologne for me?"
"Actually, I put it on before I went to bed."
"You wore cologne to bed?"
"It keeps the sheets smelling good."
Neo frowned. This was it. Knight stayed close to the front door, ready to bolt. He had made a deal with himself. He'd stay until there was blood. If he started bleeding, he would run. It seemed like the most reasonable place to draw the line.
But the older man didn't make a move. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the apartment, his attention resting on the dirty dishes piled on the desk.
"I'm sorry for the mess," Knight said.
"Oh, no. I was just… remembering."
"Sir?"
"A long time ago, I… and by that I mean Anderson… well, I used to be a little messy, too. Leaving things lying around, clothes and things. Trin used to… well, you know Trinity. Amazing how a woman will change you. One day, you'll see."
There was silence as the two of them stared at one another. Still not ruling out the possibility that Neo was there to beat him up, Knight took a step away. After half a minute, Neo continued carefully.
"Or any partner," he said. "I'm not close-minded about these things. If it's a guy, that's fine, too. What's important is that you love one another."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying, I wouldn't judge anybody either way."
"Either way of what? What do you mean?" Knight knew exactly what Neo meant and he was horrified. This was worse than anything he'd imagined. "I'm not gay."
"I'm not saying you are. Just if you were… or some people are in the middle. Or if you're confused--"
"You're confused. I'm straight."
"You know what, just forget it." Neo shrugged his shoulders and looked at the door, as if he, too were considering the option of running away. "I'm just here because… look, Trin sent me."
"Trin thinks I'm gay?" Knight nearly fainted. Then, panic set in as he considered another possibility. "Does Rorie? What about Rorie? Oh, God, tell me. Rorie doesn't, does she?"
"No. I told you, forget it. It was a mistake for me to say anything. I take it all back. I just wanted to come down here - Trin thought I should come down here - and we could talk. Man-to-man."
"I'm not gay."
"I just meant, have a discussion."
Knight was dubious. "About what?"
"About… your place in the family." The One must have noticed Knight's incredulous expression, because he then asked, "What's the matter with that?"
"Nothing. Only that… well, to be frank, sir, I'm a little surprised to hear you acknowledge that I even have a place in your family."
If Neo was taken aback by the accusation of prejudice, he didn't show it. He did, however, seem thoughtfully tolerant of him now, if not downright remorseful. Knight had the urge to tell him not to worry about it. Growing up, he had harboured no desire for a father-figure in Neo. There was a short time when he had looked up to him, in the way that almost every young boy in Zion looked up to The One, but this idolatry passed as soon as he saw Neo try to dance at a Temple gathering. And besides, if finally being 'accepted' by Neo meant being accepted as his daughter's gay best friend, then Knight would politely pass.
Neo began, "You and I," but then changed his mind. He looked into Knight's eyes and spoke matter-of-factly. "Trin saved me, too," he said. "So I understand the connection you have to her. With her." Knight only nodded. Neo trudged on. "You should know that Trinity is very proud of you. I have no doubt she'll tell you so herself. And she should be proud. She did a good job with you, given what she had to work with. She raised you right. Taught you kung-fu, hacking, table manners. That sort of thing. There is no question that she's always thought of you as a son. You have a lot of reasons to be grateful to her."
(In the supreme awkwardness of the moment, Knight tried to hide how touched he was by the suggestion that Trinity was proud of him. If he showed any emotion at all, this might reinforce certain misconceptions about his sexuality.)
"And I know that you and I haven't exactly been very close," Neo said. "I think maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. Because… you know, you threw up on me."
"I'm sorry about that."
"And that thing you do every year, having Trin kiss you under the paprika… that really gets on my nerves. It doesn't help things."
"You're right. I'll stop that."
"Or maybe, if you could just do it with Rorie instead, it might be more appropriate."
"I think you're right." The thought of Rorie's lips on his cheek sent a pleasant tingle through his groin. "Much more appropriate."
"And about Rorie…"
Knight's heart stopped. "Yes?"
"I'll tell you, there is nothing more important to me that my daughter. When it comes to her safety and happiness, I don't trust many people."
"I understand."
"The thing is, Knight, it's very possible that she wouldn't be here today if it weren't for you. You saved her life, and I will always be grateful to you for that. So… well, I hope you'll accept my thanks. In spite of everything."
Neo held out his hand. Dazed, Knight took it.
"And uhm…" Neo dug in his pocket and pulled out five-and-a-half. "You can buy yourself a beer."
"…What?"
"You do drink, don't you?"
"Well, I do. Sometimes."
"So take the money and treat yourself. You deserve it. And come by the house to eat tonight, alright? We'd love to have you."
Before Knight could fully appreciate the stupidity of accepting the money or the obvious problem of seeing Rorie at dinner that evening, he'd already accepted the invitation and pocketed the coins.
He'd use them to buy her a gift. Knight returned to his initial, absurd idea of jewellery. Earrings. Gemstones, to sparkle against the pitch curtain of her hair. If he hurried, he could probably find a pretty enough pair at the marketplace by suppertime.