My apologies for the long delay.

4. Spell

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I watched you die, he said, each syllable even and slow, measuring his adversary from behind an agent's black lenses. But the clouds swirled and flowed over, the shrouds were rent, and he was no longer in the deserted little courtyard filled with the cawing and fluttering of crows, no longer Anderson that stood facing him. The ground sped away beneath his feet until nothing remained. Standing upon the edge of the roof he watched Aleph fall, her limbs outspread as if she was still swimming through the air, receding until she was only a blotch in the distance. He saw the splatter of blood and brains upon the gray concrete.

The pavement was seventy stories down and humans were fragile. So it was not possible that he was really seeing her standing here, staring at him with that same stare of hers, both irritating and troubling at the same time. It was not possible that a mere human mind could continue to exist, preserved as a new sentient program after the death of the body—and death it had been, incontrovertibly witnessed. Such things did not happen, not in a world ruled by the ones he knew.

Therefore, he must be seeing something that was not there. It was the only alternative. Except that, too, was not possible. He could not conceive of a mechanism in his codes, no matter how badly damaged, that could deceive him like this. A hallucination. The term was supplied to him automatically, but in a curiously familiar human voice, quiet and tinged with amused irony. It snickered.

A choice between impossible and impossible. Hence there had to be a third explanation.

Someone was fucking with his codes.

Deliberately, Smith walked one step toward her. Aleph's eyes flickered, and she back-stepped once, her caution mirroring his. He risked a glance away from her face and up toward the sky. Nothing had changed: only darkness shot through with bloody lightning. It was probable that not much more time would be allowed him. If he could but get rid of this babel of noises inside his ears he'd be able to think—

Who was making him seeing all this?

The old man who watched from above, adding his gains and losses with a supercilious accountant's care. The old woman pushing the pawns across the board, a warm smile upon her face, her hand steady and merciless. The One they had chosen. Who of them was testing and prodding the codes of his mind, creating these simulacra of the dead? Why?

It did not make a difference. He knew it now. When he had imagined himself secure in his purpose they had already conspired together against him, their own secret purposes overruling all. When he had put aside that given purpose for his own—or so he had thought—nevertheless the roles had been already plotted and the script written, word for word, move for move. He had been the blind one. They laughed and mocked him.

But why her?

Because I choose to, answered Anderson one more time, voice as smug as the eyes behind his shades, strong with the unshakable superiority of both his humanity and his machinehood.

"I do not believe you, Miss Greene," said Smith, making each word out very carefully. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to concentrate, but the image of the young woman did not fade away. Instead she only shrugged.

"I'm telling you the truth. This is where we are." The earlier burst of hysteria had gone, and now she looked as tired as he felt. "Believe me or not as you will. Whatever."

"I do not believe that you are in fact here before me," Smith clarified patiently. If he had it out with her they would at least see he'd caught on to them. But then they must have already known anyway. But he would not let them get what they wanted so easily, no matter what it might be.

Aleph did not reply for a while. At last, she let out a short abrupt snort.

"I see," she said. "I see. Well, that's nice. That's brilliant, actually. I don't know if I can do anything about that. Sorry."

The two of them were circling each other again, the air between them taut as the edge of a knife. They were trying to distract him with the voices, Smith realized. He must not let them get away with it.

It's futile, someone unseen shouted suddenly out of the crowd. Futile, don't you see? Futile! Everything, every movement, every hopeless struggle against the net that only tangles you that much more tightly...This one did not sound like himself, either. For all its rage it was both frightened and weak. Another human, that much he could tell. Had he heard it before?

"You are dead and gone, Miss Greene. I watched you die," he insisted, fully aware of the difficulty of his own position. That argument had not worked on Anderson, either. But that had been different, hadn't it?

"Gods, Smith, stop thinking like a damned human—"

The irony was not lost upon him, but he went on, not quite talking directly to her anymore but knowing that he would be heard, "Whatever game that is being played upon my mind here, Miss Greene, whatever trick of the code, you may be sure that I will see through it. I will get out of this prison, Zion mainframe or not. It will not succeed. You will not break me yet."

Angrily, he stalked forward. Aleph retreated, then had to stop; her back was against the jagged wall now.

"Look, I don't know exactly how it happened, but I'm in fact, really, actually here—can't you just accept that?" Despite her obviously rising exasperation, he noticed that she still kept her eyes upon him, vigilant for any sudden moves. "I don't know how it is that I'm still alive—still existing, whatever you like to call it, okay? It had to do with something the Merovingian must have done—"

"Oh, so you let the Merovingian play around with your codes—"

Ooh, the Merovingian! Out of all the jumbling noises that were now resounding within his head, all of a sudden he heard a giggle, youthful and high-pitched like liquid crystal. Feminine. It began to chant softly, Merovingian, Merovingian, in a maddening singsong rhythm, as if delighted with the hilarious pretentiousness of the multisyllabled name. The other voices started to join in.

"Can we please keep to the point, Smith?" The reverberation of Aleph's words cut through the morass momentarily. She looked like she was struggling to think, too. "I don't know what the hell happened to you, Smith—or, well, I don't know much about it. I'm sorry for that, too. But I can only tell you that I'm here, and that—that you are here also, as far as I can see, and that, yes, we are really in the Zion mainframe even though, no, I can't quite explain it either. You don't have to believe me, but then what are you going to do about it?"

Was she admitting to anything, then? Yet it was a rational question, no matter how much the knowledge of that rankled.

"Look, Smith, say this is happening all inside your mind, for whatever reasons you think. Then there is preciously little that can help you whatever you do, is there? So you may as well—oh, say pretend that all this is real, why not? You may as well treat this as if I'm telling you the truth because—because there really is no other choice, don't you see?"

Oh, he saw perfectly well all right. It would be just what they wanted of him. But why the Zion mainframe? Why would they make her say that to him? Why would they make him hear it? If only he wasn't getting so distracted—

"But I am telling you the truth," finished Aleph. She sounded almost sad.

"What is this place?" After a long, long while, he heard himself repeat the question, this time too quietly, the edge gone, the fury drained away. Maybe it was only a long-delayed echo; he could not quite tell.

The young woman sighed.

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, another invisible presence piped up before she could speak, intoning the words with all the pomposity that only a human being was capable of. Smith's mouth twitched.

"Very well," he replied. "I need to get out of here."

After a silence, Aleph gave a small, sputtering laugh.

"I thought you always wanted to get in here, the Zion mainframe," she said, though curiously without outward rancor, as if only reminiscing. "You used to be always pressing me for the access codes, looking for the key. I'm sure you would have tortured or killed me for it, if you could..."

A key. My key. Now it was himself that spoke into the dark space. It already seemed like several ages ago.

"I must get out of here."

"So you do believe that here is real now, huh?"

"I must get free."

"I am as trapped as you are," said Aleph. Her tone was expressionless, but the tempest inside his ears was subsiding a little, and he was accustomed to listen for things that were not in words.

"You know a door out of this place," he stated flatly, seeing her grimace.

"It's gone."

He was right, then. Smith knew he had to press on. "But there is a door. A way out. You know how to find it. Tell me where it is."

"I don't know any such thing." She leaned back against the crumbling wall. Lightning reflected in her weary eyes, and the thunder drumrolled almost directly overhead. "I've seen it once before, yes," she said into the brief lulls of the storm, "but only by chance. And now it's not there anymore. It's gone. In any case it was never a door."

So she did know. For one dazzling flash everything appeared to grow clear, and with two long strides he had already sprung forward and caught her by the shoulders, pinioning her roughly against the wall.

"What is it, then?" he hissed into her face. The voices fell mute, and it was as if all his powers were returned to him.

Furious that he had taken her unawares yet unable to move, Aleph glowered back at him.

"I don't. Know." Each syllable was spat out between clenched teeth. "Just a small...breach in the wall. Maybe. A keyhole."

"Is that so?" There was something about the way she said the last word. "Who told you about it? Where is the key?"

A key is nothing more than code that seeks its rightful home.

"What?" asked Smith, furrowing his brows.

The pressure of his hands upon her shoulders diminished for a heartbeat, and Aleph, too, felt it. She lashed out—not toward him as he'd expected for she knew well what an agent was, even now—but kicking backward, her body slamming violently into the wall behind her. Bricks and mortar shuddered, long weakened by ancient battles and endless centuries of frigid winds, and a fraction of a second later he was pinning her against empty space. Both of them went down in a booming crash of debris and dust. The strength that he had regained a moment ago slipped from him, as did Aleph. She landed a solid hit on his jaw. Gritting his teeth, Smith fought back, knocking her aside with harsh, desperate force.

"Someone you wouldn't know," she answered, struggling to her feet among the rubble. "Yes, I was told—a little, maybe—about the way out, the keyhole. But he's neither here nor there, is he? It's gone now. Gone. What does it matter anymore?"

"The keyhole. The key," growled Smith. He cursed the unaccustomed weakness that was claiming him again. What a strange weight this was that held him down.

Aleph only shook her head, as if incredulous.

"Who told you? Who made it?"

Like all systems it has a weakness...The whisper chose that moment to sound again. Just now it had been something about home...Yet that could not be right. The old man never said a word to him. All he did was to die.

"The Keymaker." It was not Aleph but himself that spoke the name.

"Maybe," she said, watchful.

I've been waiting for you, added the Keymaker as if that explained everything.

Who was making him hear all these people? Why was that program here?

It's my purpose. It's the reason I'm here. Same reason we're all here. The reply was gentle, almost guileless.

"No, it is not!" The sound of his own snarl startled even himself, but he had to make sure that he was heard, wherever the other was. "My reasons are not yours, never! This is a dead end. Your purpose is gone, old man, and so are you—"

Aleph stared across at him. Everything fell silent except for the gale, which was rising once more. Then she stated, very calmly, "You killed him."

Was she more real than the Keymaker? More real than all the others? Treat her presence as if it was real...He had been doing that from the second he opened his eyes and saw her face again.

"Why?" She did not raise her voice, but he saw that her body was tightening, though not a muscle moved. She was gauging him.

More real than himself?

It is my—

"Purpose," he had to finish before the other could. Somehow it was important. What a stupid question she was asking.

"Why?" Now more loudly. Her eyes were ablaze. "Whose purpose? His? Yours?"

How did it go? "The purpose of all—life is—to end." He forced out the words and clung to them at the same time; they were as phantasmagorical as all else had become.

Anger radiated from her motionless form; it was obvious that if she thought she could get away with it she would have already attacked. But despite her emotions Aleph was still wary as she should be.

"He never hurt anyone. You bloody, evil bastard."

The others were returning now, muttering and babbling and crying, though he could not understand any of them. He was slipping and she must not see this. How had she known the Keymaker anyway?

"I shot and killed him," he said, meeting her gaze coldly, "as I have killed countlessly many before. What of it?"

"He was the one who made it, the Keymaker. Or the Merovingian," Aleph began, choking out the words with a tightly suppressed ferocity. But then she halted and looked away from him, trying to collect herself. "They found a way into the Zion mainframe, a small break in its defenses. But I doubt the Merovingian is well disposed toward either you or me, Smith, and as you so kindly told me, the Keymaker is dead. So too bad, mister. Looks like you're stuck here, doesn't it? And you've got me for company. So take a good look around and get used to it, Agent Smith. It's what's been coming to you!"

Another way. There is always another way. He had seen the old man fall, too. Yet here he was. Out of the waves of the sea Smith could hear him, the only thing he could hear clearly now.

"That can't be," he snapped.

"Whatever." Aleph waved a hand contemptuously. "Lots of things can't be. You tell me. How did you get here, anyway, Smith? Because that should never have been, either. Can you tell me how the hell that happened?"

He did not know.

"Why not?" he asked simply. What the hell happened to me, Smith? You tell me. You tell me.

Her hate-filled glare bore into his skull. She drew in a deep breath, and for an instant both of them tensed again, but she regained control.

"Because." He did not expect her to actually answer, but she did at last, with reluctant slowness, as if fighting with the sentences themselves. She was loath to help him, yet the irrational thought came to Smith that he was not the only one who was hearing things in his head. "That was what it said."

"What?"

"Those whose bodies are made of the body of the world. Those who are made of verdant dreams." Her voice grew low, as if she was searching her mind, reciting some kind of verse from memory. "The Keymaker told me it was a key in words. A cipher of sorts. A spell."

This was not possible. Nothing that had happened to him was possible.

"But I changed it," went on Aleph, more than a trace of vindictiveness in her tone. "I changed it precisely so that you wouldn't get in here. Those who have seen Zion, I said..."

Those whose bodies are made of the body of the world, yet who have seen Zion with eyes of flesh. Those who are made of verdant dreams, yet who have gazed upon the desert...

And who have despaired.

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Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Inferno, Canto 3.